


After All

by lightyears



Series: Christmasy Christmas [5]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe- Modern Setting - Freeform, Angst, Christmas, F/M, Holiday, Secret Relationship, Smut, The gang is in this, past relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 07:54:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 64,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5489465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightyears/pseuds/lightyears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s holding a box of bonbons when she feels tapping on her shoulder. Shrieking in fright, Clarke whips around, raising the box as a weapon and immediately mentally berating herself for such a poor choice of arms before --</p><p>“Bellamy,” she screams, shoving him in the chest as she tries to steady her heart rate. “What the fuck are you doing here?” </p><p>Or, the one where Bellamy shows up to Clarke's cabin before he's supposed to, and she has to work out just what he means to her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 21.12/22.12

**Author's Note:**

> Past relationships are MY FAVE fics. Mix it with secret relationship, and it's even more fun.  
> SO, this is most likely the last thing I'll post as part of the christmas series, BUT it's a multi-chapter, so there's that. I probably should've started posting earlier, because it's already the 22nd, but. Oh well, I'll hopefully have this done by like, mid Jan.  
> I've had a few comments asking about All Is Love, so if you follow it, don't worry - it hasn't been abandoned. I'll be updating before christmas, so the next few days.  
> The style of this is flashbacks at the beginning of each chapter, then the present two days.  
> Hope you enjoy!!

_December, 2013. Two years ago, to the day._

_“Thanks.” Clarke raises the shot glass to toast the bartender. He nods back, throwing a rag over his shoulder and walking away to serve another customer. It feels a lot like a movie-moment._

_There’s tinsel lining half the bar, like someone started decorating but couldn’t be bothered to finish, and multi-coloured Christmas lights hang from the ceiling. It gives off a homey vibe, like no matter who you are or why you’re here, you’re safe and welcome. It’s a nice thing to feel._

_She downs the shot in one, slamming it onto the counter of the bar, partly because it’s satisfying and partly to keep in theme with this movie thing she has going on. She tries not to blanch at the burn of tequila but can’t quite help hissing in a sharp breath._

_She’s not exactly a tequila girl, but the burn in her throat feels good. It feels better than the burning rage coursing through her body, feeling like it could consume her if she let it._

_So she drinks to feel better, because she’s a cliche and that’s what people do in movies._

_The bartender strides back to her, resting his forearms on the top of the counter opposite her. She looks up to find him watching her intently, perhaps trying to figure her out._

_“Drinking your sorrows away?” He finally asks, not looking judgemental so much as curious._

_“I thought the whole bartender-therapist thing was a cliche.”_

_“Not always,” he shrugs. “I actually have to check your ID. Manager says you look young.”_

_“Fair enough,” Clarke sighs, searching her purse and handing over her license._

_He looks it over, handing it back with a nod and says “Happy Birthday, Clarke Griffin.” He pours another shot and slides it towards her. “On the house.”_

_“Thanks.” She downs it, not caring whether she blanches this time. “Do I get your name?” She asks once she’s recovered._

_“Nathan Miller,” he offers his hand and she shakes it. She’s never really talked to her bartenders before, but she could get used to it. He’s good looking. Like, very good looking. Dark skin and dark eyes, in good shape and wearing the right clothes to show it. Definitely the kind of guy she could use for a night._

_“Clarke Griffin,” she introduces herself formally. She looks him up and down appraisingly, wondering how difficult it would be to try to hook up with her bartender. It’s a thing for a reason, right?_

_Nathan moves down the bar, handing someone a few seats away a pint before serving what looks to be a bachelor party that just came in._

_“He’s gay,” the person a few seats down says. She looks up, realising that it’s a man - a man who’s talking to her._

_“Sorry?”_

_“He’s gay,” the man repeats - the very good looking man, she registers. She seems to be attracted to everyone that talks to her tonight, but seriously. Tanned olive skin; dark, curly locks she can picture herself running her hands through; dark eyes, equally mysterious and revealing._

_“Oh.” She must’ve been obvious._

_He nods before taking a sip of his drink, watching her with a quizzical gaze._

_“So are you?”_

_“Am I what?”_

_“Drinking your sorrows away?”_

_“Maybe.” She offers a small smirk, hopes it’s intriguing enough for him to continue the conversation._

_Apparently it is, because he returns the smirk with a raised eyebrow, and slides down the bar to the seat next to her own._

_“You can tell me about it. If you want,” he grants, tipping his drink towards her._

_“Oh, can I?” She grins, feeling a spark that isn’t from the tequila or rage. He grins back, and yeah, she’s got a good feeling about this - he’s definitely the kind of guy she could use for a night. “Tell you what. Buy me a drink and I’ll let you in on it.”_

_“Okay. Miller,” he calls out, still grinning at her._

_“Yes?” Nathan asks as he walks over._

_“Another drink for Clarke Griffin.”_

_“Tequila?”_

_“Bourbon and coke, thanks,” she says._

_He slides one over with a smirk, eyeing her knowingly before giving a nod that Clarke believes means ‘have fun’. Well, it is a turn of events, yes, but not a bad one. Not at all._

_“So drinking your sorrows,” the man starts._

_“Right.” She takes a sip of her drink before breathing out. “Caught my boyfriend in bed with the ex that apparently isn’t really an ex.”_

_He whistles. “Happy Birthday to you.”_

_“Right?” She says, sarcastic. “He was kind of an idiot about it. Like, I’m weirdly insulted he didn’t try harder to hide it. I caught them at his apartment. His apartment!”_

_The man chuckles. “You seem angrier at his lack of cheating ability than the fact that he cheated.”_

_“I hide it well,” she says, offering a sly smile. “I’m pretty fucking furious, but. It’s almost like I’m more annoyed? The first thing he did was ask me was why I was there. Like, he’s there with his dick out and asks me that. Fucking idiot.”_

_“Sounds like it. What did you say?”_

_“That I wanted to surprise him,” she shrugs. “Then I was like ‘who’s the naked chick?’”_

_“And she was the ex-not-ex?”_

_“Exactly. But she had to tell me that because he was just sputtering out excuses. We both dumped him and then I drove her to the train station. It’s been a weird day.”_

_“Sounds like it.”_

_“Mmm,” she hums, smiling into her drink before finishing it. She looks back up to him, his interest very clear in the way his eyes flick down to her lips. He licks his own and she can’t help but follow the movement either. “Could get better though.”_

_He barks out a laugh. “I’ll drink to that,” he smirks, clinking his pint against her empty glass._

_Forty minutes and three drinks later he’s pressing her against the door of a bathroom stall, lips trailing up her neck and hand in her underwear, sending her over the edge with his just his fingers._

_“Holy fuck,” Clarke breathes into his shoulder once she’s stopped shaking. He moves the hair that’s stuck to her neck with sweat, starts kissing along the damp skin. She pulls a condom out of her back pocket, which yeah. She came to the bar to get laid, whatever. “Fuck. What’s your name again?”_

_“Bellamy Blake,” he chuckles against her skin, the sound turning into a groan when Clarke palms the hard length in his jeans. He pulls back, his eyes dark and full of lust - it’s a good look._

_“Cool. Just thought I should know what to call out this time.” She offers a feral grin before unbuttoning his pants, pulling them and his underwear down eagerly. “Nice dick.”_

_“Thanks,” he laughs._

_She rolls on the condom before pulling him in for a searing kiss - messy and wet and hot and very unlike Finn. He squeezes her ass and she jumps up, letting him press her against the door as he lines himself up. He thrusts into her without warning and her legs wrap around him, keeping his body close._

_She moans into his mouth, the way he fills her up making her shiver with delight. He begins thrusting, urged on by the heels of her feet pushing against the flesh of his ass. It’s hard and fast and more fun than she’s had in a long while - the anger that still pulses hot through her veins being channeled in the slap of their bodies together, the way they touch each other with almost bruising force. She lets herself enjoy the feeling of him, all hard muscles pressing against her, his thick dick pounding into her, his teeth nipping into her flesh. It’s enough to get her to the edge quickly._

_He brings a hand to her clit, working her further as he bites at her neck. She absently looks forward to seeing the marks tomorrow - a reminder of how good she feels in this moment, how powerful and in control. He whispers into her ear, all sorts of dirty things that go straight to her pussy, and she's glad it's like that; glad he isn't calling her beautiful or muttering 'I love you's like Finn did._ _He continues working her, letting the way she moans and how her breath hitches guide the angle of his thrusts and the patterns he rubs into her._

_She comes again, hard, saying the name he’s just told her - Bellamy - like a prayer, and he follows her a few thrust later, kissing her heatedly and biting her bottom lip._

_It might not be healthy, doing what she’s just done - in fact it probably isn’t - but whatever. Eventually she’ll have to actually deal with her situation and the feelings that come with it, but that can start tomorrow. For now she’s got this, and it’s definitely more fun._

_He trails a few kisses down her throat as they catch their breaths before pulling out and setting her back on her feet. She kisses him once more before they clean themselves up and start getting their clothes back in order._

_“Feel better?” He asks as he tucks himself in._

_“I know I’m supposed to say no, but I do. Thanks.”_

_He laughs, buttoning up his jeans. “No worries. Mutually beneficial. I’m glad you feel better, though.”_

_“Yeah, same.” She looks him up and down with a predatory gaze before nodding once. She unlocks the door and he follows her back into the bar. Clarke grabs the coat she left on her bar stool, heading towards the door as she checks that she’s got everything in her bag._

_“You know,” Bellamy says from behind her, and when she turns there’s smirk playing on his lips. “Seeing as this is just a one-night stand, we could take advantage of the whole night.”_

_“Oh, could we just?” Her smile is nothing but smug._

_“I’m just saying,” he shrugs with feigned nonchalance._

_“It is my birthday,” she pretends to think it over, hand trailing lightly across his chest. She leans in to press a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth, before turning around and walking to the door. “Come on, Bellamy Blake,” she calls over her shoulder._

_She stifles a laugh at the sound of him catching up to her, and steps out into the cold December night feeling the warmth of him behind her._

_Yeah, she’s feeling a whole lot like she’s in a movie right now._

\--- --- ---

“Mother fucker,” Clarke curses at the asshole who merged into her lane without indicating. Seriously, what an asshole. She would roll down her window and flip the guy off, but she’s thinking a confrontation might not be the best thing right now. She’s still a little angry about how the day’s going. Just a little.   


It’s been a long drive - two hours from the city and an extra three from her mother’s house - and the fact that it’s her birthday is making Clarke all the more bitter. Still, it’s only three in the afternoon, so the day is still salvageable. By salvageable she means she’s still got time to get drunk. Happy twenty-forth to her.

The cabin is the same as it always is when she pulls up fifteen minutes later. She sighs a breath of relief while turning her car off, the familiarity of the house washing a calming warmth through her.It always does - the memories of her childhood holidays spent with family and friends, full of love and laughter pulling a soft smile from her. 

She steps out into the chilly winter air, tugging her coat more tightly around herself to ward off the cold quickly seeping into her skin. She picks up the bags in her boot hastily, and then the envelope sitting on the passenger seat gingerly, before making her way up to the front door.

“Fuckity fuck." She fumbles to push the old key into its lock. “It’s too cold for this,” she whines, finally getting it in and rattling it to the side. It unlocks with a click and Clarke pushes her way into the house, breathing in its familiar scent as she leans against the door.

It might not be how she was planning to spend the day, but it’s good to be back.

***

“Money!” Clarke calls out, watching her old friend’s head whip around with the nickname. 

“Clarke!” She exclaims, running the short distance between them and pulling the blonde into a tight hug, warm and fond. “What the hell are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting you till after Christmas.”

Clarke sighs, pulling back with a rueful expression. “Fight with Mum. Decided to come down early.” She leaves it at that. No need to relive it - she’ll just get herself angry all over again.

“Well fuck,” Monroe chuckles, squeezing Clarke’s hand compassionately. “It works out nicely for me, though.”

Clarke barks out a laugh, shaking her head. “Glad to know my family problems are good for someone.”

“You know me, babe: selfish.”

“That you are.”

Monroe sticks her tongue out, unable to hide the fond grin tugging at her lips. “When are the others coming down?”

“Should be the twenty sixth if the weather cooperates,” Clarke says. She’s really hoping the weather cooperates. She wouldn’t mind getting really fucking drunk with Raven and Octavia.

“Party?”

“Always.”

Monroe offers a wicked grin. “Good.” She checks her phone and tuts. “Shit, babe, I’m meeting Harper in ten, so I gotta go. Do you want to have a drink tonight? A few of us should be at the bar.”  
“Sounds good,” Clarke smiles. “Say hi to Harper for me.”

“Will do. We’ll get there around seven, okay? See you tonight.”  


“See you tonight, Money.” Clarke smacks a kiss on her old friend’s cheek and watches her run down the supermarket aisle with amusement. 

She continues pushing her trolley around, throwing in enough food that’ll allow her to survive until her friends arrive. It’s a relatively small town, so she gets a few nods of recognition from the people that live close by - a few early years living here followed by almost fifteen years of long summers and winter breaks visiting will do that.

It’s close to four when she returns back to the cabin, bags of groceries in hand. She unpacks them with ease, muscle memory of moving around the kitchen coming back to her quickly, and decides that some alcoholic eggnog and Christmas tunes are needed to help her relax. 

It’s what she blames not hearing the door open and close on, or the subsequent footsteps - the fact that she’s slightly tipsy, dancing around the open living area and decorating it with Christmas ornaments, singing along loudly to an old CD she remembers from Christmas’ spent with her father.

She’s holding a box of bonbons when she feels tapping on her shoulder. Shrieking in fright, Clarke whips around, raising the box as a weapon and immediately mentally berating herself for such a poor choice of arms before --  


“Bellamy,” she screams, shoving him in the chest as she tries to steady her heart rate. What the fuck is he doing here? “What the fuck are you doing here?”

He looks incredibly amused, which just serves to piss her off even more. “Could say the same to you, princess.”

“This is my fucking place.”

He rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. Classic macho move. “Just because you organised it doesn’t mean the place is _yours,_ Clarke.”

“No,” she grits through her teeth. “But the fact that I _own_ the house means it’s mine.”

He gapes, and she feels a smug sense of satisfaction that she’s taken him by surprise. “O didn’t mention that,” he finally responds. 

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Why’d you think you didn’t need to put in any money?”

“I thought we’d work it out up here,” he shrugs, looking more sheepish than he did about scaring the fuck out of her.

“Seriously, Bellamy,” Clarke sighs. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

He rakes a hand through his hair nervously. “O told me I could come up early. I think she felt bad for leaving, so,” he shrugs again, and Clarke deflates a little. She knows how guilty Octavia felt for spending the holiday away from her brother for the first time. “She didn’t know you’d be here. Obviously,” he adds unnecessarily, almost as an afterthought.

“Yeah, obviously,” Clarke mutters, a hand going straight to the bridge of her nose.

If you asked any of her friends - any but one - they would tell you that she and Bellamy hated each other from the moment they met. Which was entirely untrue, but it’s not like any of them knew that. They didn’t know that Clarke and Bellamy had met earlier than they let on, so all they had to go on was the first awkward introduction and the following months of cold shoulders and harsh words. It’s different now, but. She’s still not sure how to categorise their relationship. They used to fuck, now they don’t, and she’s having a hard time getting past it.

Clarke sighs a breath too big for her body, an internal battle between herself playing out as she tries to figure out her next move.

“I guess I’ll show you around,” she says finally, deciding that a fight isn’t worth the effort.

“Not going to throw me out?” He jokes.

Clarke scoffs, as if she wasn’t debating just that, and silently turn from him in the hopes that he’ll follow. He does, and she quickly shows him around the ground floor of the house.   
“Bedrooms are upstairs,” she says as she ascends the steps. “There are six, so just, you know…chose whichever looks best.”

Bellamy nods, looking into each of the rooms lining the hallway before deciding on the one opposite hers. 

“Cool. Well, bathroom’s down the hall or downstairs.” She doesn’t mention the ensuite in her own room. “You’re welcome to have a shower or whatever.”

“Thanks,” Bellamy says, slightly awkward.

Clarke nods, turning around to head back downstairs.

“And Clarke?” She stops but doesn’t turn to face him. “Happy birthday.” He sounds genuine, the words soft, almost like a secret, and it makes her heart hurt. Makes it heavy and full and tight all at once.

“Thanks,” she says quietly, continuing in her steps back to the living room. She lies down on the couch, fishing her phone from her pocket and calling Octavia.

_“Happy Birthday, bitch!”_

“Thanks for warning me that Bellamy was going to be at the cabin,” she interrupts, dry.

_“Shit,”_ Octavia curses over the phone. _“Did he fuck up something with an alarm? I gave him all the codes but you know how he can be.”_

Clarke huffs out a laugh despite herself. “No, he just scared the living hell out of me when he walked inside.”

_“Wait. Why the hell are you at the cabin already?”_

“Mum.”

_“Shit. Sorry, Clarke. You can, um - you can kick him out or something. I’m sure he won’t mind the drive back. I just thought that he’d enjoy spending Christmas out of town because I won’t be home, but I should’ve told you. Fuck, I’m so sorry.”_

“O, calm down. It’s fine, really. Just…a surprise is all.”

There’s a pause. _“You sure?”_ Octavia doesn’t sound convinced. _“You’re not going to kill each other before we get there, are you? I know you guys kind of hate each other, but he is my brother and I’d prefer him not dead.”_

“We’ll be fine,” Clarke replies, trying to convince herself of the words as much as Octavia. 

Octavia releases a breath, and Clarke figures the girl is reassured.  


_“So your mum?”_ She prompts.

“Yeah,” Clarke sighs, closing her eyes. “Shit went down, I decided to leave, here we are.”

_“But on your birthday?”_ Octavia replies sympathetically. _“You won’t have anyone to celebrate with.”_

“I’ll be fine, O,” Clarke says, smiling fondly at her friend’s worry. “I’ve got some friends down here. And Bellamy. It’s better than spending it with my mum and Marcus, trust me.” She opens her eyes to find the man in question on the last few steps of the stairs, most likely having caught the tail end of her conversation. “I’ll call you later okay? I have to go.”

_“Okay, babe. Try to relax. Happy Birthday.”_

“Thanks, O. Love you.”

_“Love you, too._ ”

“Octavia?” Bellamy asks as he makes his way over to Clarke. He doesn’t take a seat, and Clarke wonders how long it’ll take him to feel comfortable now that he knows the house is hers, and not just something the group is renting out.

“Yep,” Clarke says as she stands, walking to the kitchen. “So I’m meeting some friends at the local bar tonight. Just thought I’d give you a heads up.” She leans against the counter, crossing her arms.  


Bellamy nods, rests against the door frame to the kitchen. “Cool.”

They stand there for a few moments, both taking each other in. He looks the same as always, the same as he did the last time they saw each other - not yet three days ago. But still, there’s something. A softness they share when nobody’s watching. One she doesn’t know what to do with, doesn’t really understand. They’re not _friends_ , but. They’re something. When nobody’s paying attention and they allow themselves to let their guards down, they are something. More than acquaintances, maybe even more than friends. It confuses her, too.

Clarke breathes in a deep breath, stepping away from the counter and walking towards the kettle.  


“Coffee?” She asks, because she’s not sure she can take another second of the heavy silence weighing on them.

“Irish.”

She flashes a small grin over her shoulder, and his returning one makes her heart stutter, the way his eyes crinkle lighting up her body.

It’s going to be a long five days.

***

“Did you know,” Clarke slurs, gesturing to Anya as she sits at the bar. The scene feels a little familiar, but she’s sure it’s only because she’s thinking about that night two years ago. “That two year ago I fucked someone in a bar?”

Oh, and yeah, she’s pretty fucking drunk.

Anya gives her a look, one that seems to say _why the fuck would I know that?_ and _of course I know that_ in equal measures, so Clarke just shrugs. She didn’t have anywhere to go with the story, it just sort of popped into her head and needed to be said aloud.

“How’re you getting home?”

Clarke shrugs again. “It’s only a ten minute walk.”

“Not in your state,” Anya mutters, looking very done with her life. 

“No, Anya. Ayna? Anya. You don’t get it.” Anya levels her with an unimpressed glare. “Two years ago _today._ ”

Anya rolls her eyes, and it’s a gesture that Clarke remembers from when she was ten and the other girl fifteen and Clarke had tried to convince her that blue _was_ , in fact, a flavour.

“I’m calling you a cab.”

Clarke groans, picking up the glass of water Anya insisted she drank. “You don’t have to. Bellamy’s here.” She gestures vaguely to a booth at the other end of the bar, where she knows Bellamy’s sitting and talking to a very pretty girl named Roma. Whatever.

“Are you sure he’ll be going home with you?”

Clarke doesn’t answer, just shrugs again and walks back to where her friends are surrounding a pool table. They cheer when she arrives, which is kind of the best. She could get used to this kind of birthday treatment. 

Well, day-after-birthday treatment.

It’s another twenty minutes of lining up and missing shots in an attempt to play pool before Harper slides up next to her. The girl is probably as drunk as Clarke, so the attempted steadying arm she puts around Clarke’s shoulders ends up making them both sway and slightly tip over. They manage to straighten without toppling over completely, but it feels like a close call, and they’re giggling like crazed middle schoolers.

“So, Bellamy,” Harper finally says - once they’ve both taken calming breaths - whispering like the boy is a goddamn conspiracy.

“So, Bellamy,” Clarke parrots, because this much alcohol is making her more like a five year old than anything else.

“Shhh,” Harper slaps a finger against Clarke’s lips to silence her, making Clarke burst into a new round of giggles. “I’m serious,” the girl whispers. “You’re friends. But you don’t,” she flails her arms around dramatically, “come here together. And when he shows up you talk for twenty minutes and then he just fucks off?”

“Mmmm,” Clarke agrees, resting her head on Harper’s shoulder, her eyes getting heavier with each passing second.

“I don’t get it, Clarkey,” Harper whines, very pathetic and confused.

“We’re not like, _friend_ friends, you know?”

“No.”  


“Yeah,” Clarke snorts, “me either.”

Harper pats Clarke on the head, in what she thinks is meant to be a consoling way, and they stand together in silence. It’s nice and warm in the bar, music echoing throughout it softly, and between blinks Clarke’s eyes find Bellamy. He's still talking to that girl, a beer in his hand and looking very much at ease. He always does. He catches her gaze, quirking an eyebrow in question, but she just offers a smile and closes her eyes again, not bothering to pretend she wasn’t staring.

“Home time, princess?” Bellamy startles her ten minutes later. She’s back to playing - no, attempting to play - pool, this time her and Maya against Atom and Monroe. She’s like, ninety percent sure they’re losing, but she can't remember if they're solids or stripes, so they  _could_ be winning by a landslide. 

“Bellamy!” She calls, almost hitting him with her cue. He grabs it easily, an amused expression gracing his face as he puts it away.  


“Drunk?”

She scoffs, even though it’s pretty obvious she’s plastered.

“I’ll introduce you to people,” she grabs his hand and walks him approximately one metre before coming to a stop. She doesn't let go of his hand. Everyone’s already looking at her expectantly so she says, “This is Bellamy,” while gesturing wildly to him, like they won’t know who she’s talking about unless she points finger arrows. “He’s Octavia’s older brother and a loser.”

“Gee, thanks,” he mutters.

The group lets out a general greeting and Clarke continues. “This is Money,” she points out the girl with auburn hair. “Monroe, actually. We met when she punched Murphy in the face for stealing my doll. It was in the first grade,” she supplies when Bellamy looks confused. “Murphy was an asshole. Oh, that’s Murphy,” she gestures to the boy that looks sullen and bored. “He’s still an asshole. Harper is Monroe’s girlfriend, but she was my first kiss so I think I win, and Atom there was my first kiss with a boy and the first person who went to second base with me.” She attempts a sultry wink, but in her state she thinks she just blinks aggressively. Both the boy in question and Bellamy snort a laugh, and Clarke grins, very dazed. “Then there’s Maya, Fox, Matt and James. Jasper's in love with Maya,” she whisper-shouts, very obvious.

“Nice to meet you guys,” Bellamy supplies with a charming smile. He’s always charming like that, Clarke thinks. She narrows her eyes and screws up her nose. Why is he always so charming with new people? It’s annoying. She’s the worst at meeting new people. “Do you guys mind if I take her home? I’m not sure she’ll be able to stand pretty soon.”

“I’m fine,” Clarke slurs, but she trips over her own feet and is basically ignored for the rest of the exchange.  


She gathers her bag, and after a round of goodbyes and a promise to host a party, is walking towards the exit with one Bellamy Blake.

“Did you know,” she says, leaning into him to help her stay upright. “That we met _exactly_ two years ago?”

He huffs out a laugh. “I remember, princess,” he says, dry.

“Anya,” Clarke suddenly yells, stopping in front of the bar. The woman looks up, raising a questioning eyebrow. “This is the guy,” she whisper-shouts, pointing towards Bellamy discretely. From Anya’s look, it’s not very discrete. “Met him and fucked him right there in the bathroom of the bar.” Anya smiles - _smiles_ \- in what Clarke’s pretty sure is utter amusement at her drunkenly embarrassing herself. 

“Jesus, Clarke,” Bellamy mutters, tugging her arm.  


“What?” She asks, following him. “It’s true.”

“Again,” he sighs. “I remember.”

She walks towards the exit of the bar, and just before leaving turns around to yell "BLUE IS A FLAVOUR," at Anya, and runs out the door. Bellamy follows her out with an awkward walk-run, and Clarke's giggling ridiculously as he steadies her by propping her arm around his shoulder.

It’s a long walk when she's drunk, about twenty three of Bellamy’s sighs worth, and by the time they step inside she’s pretty sure she’ll never feel her toes again. She would be more upset about this development, but she’s still pretty drunk, so it doesn’t seem like much of a loss.

“Come on,” Bellamy says as he helps Clarke up the stairs and to her bedroom. She wants to just pass out on the very inviting, comfy-looking bed, but her clothes are cold and a little wet, so she begins shucking her coat off. He helps with it, pulls off her sweater and boots before finding a pair of pyjamas in the drawers. “Can you get into these by yourself?”  


“I’m not a child,” she says, sounding petulant and exactly like a child. Bellamy rolls his eyes and turns to face the door, but doesn’t leave, which yeah, it’s fair. She stumbles out of her clothes and pulls on the fresh pair of PJs, all warm and snuggly, before falling into bed.

Bellamy turns around and tucks the blankets up to her chin, putting a glass of water on her bedside table that seems to have materialised out of nowhere. 

“You’re not going to throw up, are you? He asks, tucking some of the hair fanning her face behind her ear. 

She shakes her head, looking up at him and feeling very small in this moment. 

“Good,” he smiles, removing his hand from where it was almost cradling her face. He straightens and turns around, begins on the door before she calls out -

“I never know how to act around you. You know?” Somewhere in her mind a small voice is screaming at her to _shut the fuck up_ , because she really shouldn’t be drunkenly confessing this shit. But that’s just a small voice, and the rest of her brain doesn’t really care.

“Yeah,” he says, turning back to face her. “I know.” He leans down and presses a kiss to her forehead. “Get some sleep, Clarke.”  


She nods, watches him leave the room, and closes her eyes, letting alcohol and exhaustion pull her towards sleep.

***

Clarke wakes up with a pounding headache and a dry mouth. Her body aches, like it always does after a big night of drinking, and she stretches in her bed before pulling the covers tighter around her. 

It’s past two she realises when checking her phone, which is pretty much the latest she’s slept in in the last year. There’s a glass of water on her bedside table, and she vaguely remembers someone putting it there, but can’t quite pinpoint it. It’s difficult to drink, but she braves it out, popping some aspirin and hoping it’ll stop the persistent throb at her temples.

It’s another twenty minutes before she’s able to get out of bed, and it’s only to make the short distance to her bathroom. She sits down in the shower, her body not quite ready to support itself, and turns the water to a temperature that gets her skin nice and flushed in under a minute. She just sits, nothing on her mind but not feeling empty, and lets the water wash over her, wash away the smell of alcohol and smoke. She lathers herself in a pomegranate scented body gel, one that always makes herself feel refreshed, and rinses her hair through with the purple shampoo that promises to tone it. She’s not sure whether it works or not, but a hair routine feels like something she should have, so she puts it in once a week anyway.

She makes it downstairs by three, wearing a pair of leggings, a thick wooly sweater and UGG boots, and finds it empty. A note in the kitchen says _OUT_ and Clarke’s glad - she has a vague feeling that she should be embarrassed, but isn’t sure why. If she can postpone the inevitable finding-out-why part of her day, she’s happy. There’s some pancake batter made up in the fridge, which shouldn’t surprise Clarke because Bellamy is the _king_ of breakfast, but she finds a soft smile tugging at her lips anyway. There’s a post-it note on the bowl saying _HAPPY HANGOVER/POST-BIRTHDAY, NO IRISH COFFEE FOR YOU_ and her smile widens.

She eats her afternoon-breakfast with only a scrape of butter, because the thought of maple syrup or lemon and sugar kind of makes her want to throw up, and settles on the couch to turn on the TV. She wasn’t actually annoyed about coming to the cabin for a few days by herself, it’s just the _why_ that pissed her off. The envelope is still sitting unopened on the chest of drawers in her room, and Clarke still has a sickening twist of her stomach when she thinks about its contents. 

But still, it’s nice to spend some time by herself. Sure, Bellamy’s here, but she’s not sure that counts.  


She’s in the middle of _Nativity!_ when she hears the door open and footsteps sounding through the entry of the cabin.  


“Hey,” Bellamy says when he walks into the living area, settling down on one of the arm chairs - apparently not uncomfortable at making himself at home anymore.  


“Hey,” Clarke says, grunts more like it, because this hangover is making her feel close to death. Why did she drink so much again?

“You’re sounding good.”

“Fuck off.”

Bellamy huffs a laugh before throwing a plastic bag towards her. There’s gatorade and aspirin and some hot chips that look to die for.

“Thanks,” she says, already stuffing a few in her mouth. She moans with it, because if there’s one thing that makes her feel better when hungover, it’s hot chips. She didn’t realise Bellamy knew that. “Where’ve you been?” She asks, because as far as she knows he’s been out for over three hours. 

“Exploring,” he offers. She gives him an unimpressed glare, because you can’t really _explore_ in a town this small. There’s a Main Street, and that’s all. “Book shop,” he amends sheepishly.

“Should’ve known,” she says, settling back to watch the rest of the film.  


She’s expecting Bellamy to leave - see again, they’re not really _friends_ \- but he doesn’t. Just toes off his boots and shrugs off his coat and finds himself a blanket to snuggle into. It’s all very domestic, but she’s trying not to think about that, instead focussing on Martin Freeman being beautiful.

It’s…nice, actually. They laugh throughout the film, the sound echoing in the warm room, and she’s actually able to relax , which. Well, she’s not always able to around him.

“You said you never know how to act around me,” he says when the credits are rolling. They were sitting in almost companionable silence, easy and light, and he startles her with the statement.

“What?” She asks, confused.

She hears Bellamy sigh, but doesn’t raise her head to look at him. She’s too nervous, because she's pretty sure she knows where this is going.

“Last night you told me you don’t know how to act around me,” he clarifies, and Clarke’s breath catches. She doesn’t remember, not really, but it _is_ how she feels, so apparently Drunk Clarke is much more forward with her feelings.

“Oh,” is all her mind can think to say. She really wishes he’d just let her hide under a blanket, because she doesn’t want to have this conversation. 

“I just…didn’t realise.”

She worries her lip, embarrassment seeping into her heart and pumping through her veins. She doesn’t respond, not sure what he’s expecting her to say, what he wants from this conversation.

“Are you just going to ignore me?” He asks.

“No,’ she rushes to say, but doesn’t exactly have a follow up. Anything she says will be pathetic, she’s sure. She hates feeling pathetic. “I guess it’s true,” she offers quietly.

She hears him shuffle, and finally looks up to find him shifting in his seat. She sighs, moving to sit up herself. She hugs her legs close to her chest, chin resting on her knees. Apparently this is happening.

“It’s just - everything means something. If I’m nice to you, it means something. If we start joking around, it means something. If I smile, it means something. If we scream at each other, it means something. If we don’t even talk, it means something. I want to find a normal, but I don’t know what it is because-”

“Everything means something,” Bellamy concludes with a sigh. 

Clarke nods. “And I wish that I could be the kind of person who doesn’t overthink it, because really, it’d make my life easier.” And less pathetic. “Because it’s been a long fucking time.” She sighs. It’s been a _really_ long fucking time, and she still can’t get past it. Maybe that’s the point. 

They’re silent for a few minutes, chancing glances at each other and occasionally catching them. She’s desperate for him to say something, because she really doesn’t want to come off as the girl who'll never get over him, but. Maybe that’s what she is. Maybe that’s what she’ll always be, even just a little bit.

“Truce?” He says finally.

“What?”

Bellamy sighs, standing up and sitting next to Clarke on the couch. 

“I know what you mean - I’m never sure how to act around you, either. And nobody knows, so it’s more difficult; everything seems to hold more weight. So, truce,” he repeats. “We can just be, you know, nice to each other. Friends, maybe? That can be our new normal. If you want.”

If you want. Just like when they met, it's up to her to accept the offer.

She shifts her head, looks up to find him already watching her. He looks - hopeful, almost, like maybe he’s as sick of whatever they’ve been doing as she is.

“That’d be nice,” she says with a smile. “Truce.”

He nods once before putting on another movie, settling a blanket on top of both of their laps. 

A truce it is. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed!!!!  
> Also, is this M or E???? I didn't know what to rate.  
> Comments/kudos are always the loveliest :) :)


	2. 23.12/24.12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took longer to update than I planned!! Hope you enjoy :)

_End of April, 2014._

_Clarke doesn’t dislike her roommate. In fact, Sterling is pretty much as good as they come - he always pays his rent on time, he cleans up his dishes as soon as he’s finished with them, and he even lets Clarke use his Netflix account, going as far as refusing her offer to chip in (he explains it by saying it’s his parents’ account, and Clarke isn’t exactly going to say no to free Netflix). So yes, she likes her roommate - doesn’t mind spending the occasional evening with him. But they aren’t friends. They could be, sure, but he’s a nurse and works weird hours, so they don’t get to see each other very much, and when they do, one of them is usually in a zombie state from the long hours they both keep._

_Still, they get along well enough that when he tells her his girlfriend is going to be in the city for the long weekend, Clarke responds with the promise to crash with a friend to give them some alone time. Because sure, she’s currently single (and happy, for your information), but she still remembers how nice it is to spend a weekend in bed with the person you love._

_Which is how she finds herself at Raven’s place, tugging on a dress that’s probably a little too tight and a little too short, and having her face pushed and prodded to get “dolled up” as her new, (and unlikely) friend, had put it._

_They ran into each other back in February, both buying discounted chocolate after Valentines Day at the supermarket of all places, and after the initial awkwardness decided to grab a drink and get to know each other. The logic behind it was odd - that if Finn liked the both of them they must have something in common - but it turned out to be true. Raven Reyes was a firecracker from the start - funny, sarcastic, gorgeous, and smart as hell - and the two girls got along ridiculously well. It turned out that she’d moved to the city for a job, planning to live with Finn, and after the revelation of Clarke decided to find a new apartment and stay anyway. There was a real ‘fuck boys’ vibe throughout the explanation._

_And so they became friends - easy and comfortable despite their initial meeting. And two months later the girl’s fitting in seamlessly with Clarke’s group, her friends taking to her - or as Jasper puts it, ‘adopting her’ - without hesitation. It’s nice having a girl around as well, because Clarke’s often surrounded by boys, and while she’s not one to subscribe to ridiculous and antiquated gender roles, the boys she’s friends with aren’t all that into shit-talking trash TV or giving advice on specific vibrators or spending two hours finding a bra that will make her boobs look amazing, and Raven is. So it’s good being friends with her for those very shallow reasons, as well as the million others, and Clarke’s finding it difficult to fault her relationship with Finn when she got someone so amazing out of it.  
_

_“We are so getting laid tonight,” Raven states as she straightens her hair._

_They’re getting ready to go clubbing (and apparently get laid, as well), because it’s the first weekend night off they’ve both shared in the two months of being friends._

_“Hell yeah,” Clarke hollers, and they high-five like frat boys hosting their first college party. She’s not opposed to getting laid tonight, but honestly isn’t going to make much of an effort - she’s just trying to keep the good energy flowing (and doesn’t really want another speech from Raven about how Finn Collins will not beat them. (Clarke’s not sure what the competition is. She doesn’t want to ask.))._

_They down a few shots of the cheap bottle of gin hidden in Raven’s underwear drawer (there doesn’t seem to be a lot of trust between her and her three roommates) before heading out for the night, and Clarke can’t help but laugh at how different her life has become in a mere four months. She links an arm through Raven’s, incredibly thankful that this girl was brought into her life, and they grab a cab to the club._

_It’s late by the time they arrive, already loud and sweaty and hot and absolutely packed. It’s not exactly surprising - the Easter break leaving most people with a long weekend - and while Clarke isn’t always a fan of this kind of environment, it’s fun with Raven. They buy a few more drinks before making their way onto the dance floor, immediately lacing their fingers together to dance._

_It’s fun. Raven unabashedly grinds onto Clarke’s leg, and they laugh and sing and dirty dance and get lost in the feeling of the music and the people around them. She’s in the last two months of her degree, has a job practically lined up when she’s finished, and a new friend she can see remaining in her life for a long time - she’s happy, and it’s easy to let herself go for the night._

_It’s just past midnight that she’s desperate for some more water, so gestures to Raven that she’s heading back to the bar, receiving a nod of understanding in return._

_By the time she makes it the jug of water resting on the bar and downs two glasses (she thinks she’s lost that much liquid purely in sweat), she finds Raven already dancing with a guy she can only think to describe as scruffy-looking. She catches her friend’s eye, and the girl winks at Clarke, biting back a grin as she lifts an arm around the boy’s neck, pressing her ass into his groin. Clarke can’t help but laugh - her friend works fast, and the boy she’s with really doesn’t know the storm that’s just hit him._

_She orders a shot of vodka, because if she’s lost her friend for the night - after only two hours, too - she’ll definitely need more to drink._

_“From my memory you prefer tequila,” a voice, low and rough and vaguely familiar states from behind her._

_Clarke frowns, turning around to tell someone off for such a terrible line before meeting a head of dark hair and a face she couldn’t really forget._

_“Bellamy,” she says, her voice surprised yet giddy._

_“You remember,” he smirks, moving next to her and flagging down the bartender. He orders another two shots of vodka, which seems promising to Clarke._

_“I wasn’t that drunk,” she responds._

_“Neither was I, Clarke Griffin.”_

_She can’t fight the grin starting to spread on her face, because yeah - that night is etched in her memory as fucking fantastic, but she would never have known it was in his, as well. And she thinks it might be._

_He offers one of the shots when the bartender hands them over, and they clink the glasses together in cheers before downing them. She’s half expecting him to leave it at that - there are an array of girls (and boys) out tonight, and in the minute she’s been standing with Bellamy she’s seen no less than five checking him out - but he orders another round, and they down those as well._

_“So how did everything go with the boyfriend?” He asks, and she raises an eyebrow. He looks a few drinks into the night and might be lacking a brain-to-mouth filter. Or he could be fishing. She’s really hoping he’s fishing._

_“Ex-boyfriend now,” she smiles wryly. They’ve talked a total of three times since the break up; first so he could explain the situation (not that she cared - cheating is cheating), the second time to exchange belongings, and the third when he came knocking on Raven’s door, only to find the two girls hanging out and drinking margaritas. The look on his face was absolutely priceless. “I’m friends with the ex-not-ex now, though,” she continues. “That’s who I came with - she’s around here, somewhere.”_

_“Well shit,” he laughs, the sound deep, the vibrations of his chest tingling her skin._

_“She’s pretty cool actually,” Clarke shrugs. More than once she wondered why Finn would cheat on Raven with her, but every time she voiced it Raven would smack her in the head and say they were both amazing and way too good for him. “If I realised that the day we met I never would’ve run into you.”_

_“Yeah, well I’m glad you didn’t,” he smirks, and there’s a heated moment where they’re almost sizing each other up, working out if the other is game. “Look, this might be too forward, but is there any chance you want to get out of here?” Bellamy asks, and well - she’s glad he didn’t back down. Although she may not’ve been planning on making an effort to get laid, she’s definitely not going to let the opportunity pass her by. Especially with Bellamy._

_“Just give me one minute,” she says, leaning up to kiss the corner of his mouth - just like she remembers - before turning around to find her friend._

_When she does, she gets the look of a proud parent, which is only slightly concerning, and is sent on her way with the request to “be safe and have fun.”  
_

_She looks to the man Raven was just dancing with - Scruffy - and levels her with a pointed look, one eyebrow raised. “Same to you.”_

_And then she’s walking out of the club with one Bellamy Blake on her arm, because apparently this is her life. She’s not complaining - but really, it feels kind of surreal._

_They go back to his apartment, and she vaguely remembers the direction to his room as he leads them to it. They make it there before tearing into each other, but only barely - there’s a trail of clothes they’ll have to pick up in the morning (Clarke absently hopes Bellamy doesn’t have a roommate - or if he does, that the person at least isn’t an asshole), but with the way he presses her into his bed, she doesn’t mind all that much._

_He gets her off with his mouth first, and Clarke would be worried that she’d hurt him with how hard she pulls his hair as she comes, but he moans into her cunt, lapping her up like she’s the best damn thing he’s ever tasted._

_It’s easy after that, pulling him up and flipping them over (because last time he was in control and Clarke loves being on top, loves the power it gives her) and she slides onto him smoothly, her pussy wet and ready. It’s a different energy this time - not as angry and bruising as the bar was, but just as fun and satisfying. She comes with her hand of her clit, Bellamy’s mouth and hands teasing her nipples, and he flips them over in her dazed state - fucking into her until he comes with a broken moan._

_After they’ve cleaned up she flops back onto his bed, hoping he isn’t waiting for her to leave (she didn’t last time, either - but this feels more significant somehow). But he doesn’t seem fazed, so she doesn’t worry, and they fall asleep close, only their legs touching._

_When she wakes up it’s an entirely different story. They seem to have migrated towards each other during the night - her head is tucked under his chin, his arm around her waist, and their legs are tangled. She can feel his morning wood against her stomach, and when she presses into him he groans. The grin she offers when pulling away to look at him is smug, and he waits all but two seconds before he’s pushing her into the bed and surrounding her. She’s always been a fan of morning sex, but with Bellamy it’s even better, and it’s surprising how well they work together after just two nights (or days) in bed (or bar)._

_She’s never been big on casual sex - despite what her nights with Bellamy might suggest - but she could definitely get used to it with someone like him. He seems to agree, because by the time she’s getting dressed he asks for her number._

_“If you want a booty call,” he offers, relaxed, “I’d be happy to oblige.”_

_And she’s never had a booty call before, either - never been sleeping with relatively regularly but casually. It sounds like fun, and after rushing into everything with Finn so much, maybe it’s exactly what she needs - no strings attached sex. So she agrees, and they exchange numbers, and it’s only two weeks later that she’s back at her apartment and can’t quite scratch the itch that’s been building ever since the addition of the new contact in her phone that she texts him._

_C: You free?_

_B: Yes._

_C: And?_

_B: Send me your address._

_She grins, sending the text through, and only has to wait twenty minutes before Bellamy’s trailing his lips down her neck._

_Yeah, booty calls are something she’s all for._

_\--- --- ---_

Clarke wakes up to singing. 

Now, it’s not that she’s opposed to Christmas carols, or even Bellamy Blake’s off-key rendition of Christmas carols, but it’s nine in the morning and she’s cold and maybe a little hungover (her alcohol tolerance seems to be dwindling with each birthday), and she’s really regretting letting him take the room opposite hers. 

“Bellamy,” she yells out, trying for angry but the words coming out sleepy instead. 

He stops singing abruptly - so mission accomplished - and she can almost _feel_ his embarrassment at being caught out. “Yeah?” He calls back, his tone wary.

“Get the fuck in here.”

She hears him shuffle across the floor boards, and when her door is pushed open he walks towards her with a sheepish expression and the blush she half-expected. His ears are even a little red, and she doesn’t find it adorable at all. She _doesn’t._

She throws a pair of bundled up socks at him once he’s at the foot of her bed, as punishment of course, because she’s mature. They hit him flat on his forehead, and Clarke has to bite back her laugh at his look of shock and bemusement. He throws them pack at her with a slight pout, but she’s easily able to dodge the hit by pulling her doona over her face and hiding under it. 

“Shut the fuck up,” she yells through the fabric, the words muffled but still intelligible.

He sighs and shuffles out of her room and to his own, leaving Clarke surrounded by a lot of blanket and only a little guilt. But seriously, though - singing at nine in the morning on Christmas Eve Eve? He’s like that parent who decides to start vacuuming on Saturday mornings when everyone’s trying to sleep in (which she actually knows he does, too). 

She tries to doze off for a little while longer, but sleep escapes her, and eventually so does her ability to ignore the fact that she’s being a little bit rude hiding out in her bed. She begrudgingly accepts defeat (she’ll probably be bitter about it for a while longer) and slides out of bed, pulling on the warm slippers she bought specifically for winter.

She trudges down the stairs with a slight scowl on her face, folding her arms tightly across her chest in an attempt to warm up (and hug herself. She’s a little worried about what the day with Bellamy holds with their newfound ‘truce’ (he obviously doesn’t see waking her up in the morning an important part of it. She’ll need to talk to him about that).

She thinks last night went well. While they were a little tentative at first, obviously feeling each other out, they were eventually able to relax and enjoy the evening and each other’s company. And she’s used to that - hanging out with him just like she does Raven or Octavia or Wells - because sometimes it’s just how their days will pan out, and the pair will be found by their (very confused) friends drinking wine on the couch and watching Netflix together. So yes, they can be nice to each other, and they _are_ nice to each other. That’s not really the point (it’s never really been the point). See, their problem isn’t really about being nice. It’s about being _consistently_ nice. 

So that’s what she’s worried about; whether they can play nice two days in a row (or four, really, but who’s counting?))

The smell of breakfast wafts through the living room, and the scowl on her face lessens in intensity, the promise of food slightly making up for how she woke up.

“Eggs and facon?” Bellamy offers when she steps into the kitchen, smile bright and sunny and way too much for the time of day. He doesn’t seem upset or annoyed at her, which is something at least.

“I want bacon,” she replies, petulant, while still accepting the plate he hands over. 

“Well then you should’ve bought some,” he tells her haughtily, and she can imagine him with an apron on, one hand on his hip and the other pointing an accusing wooden spoon.

“They were all out,” she exclaims. “The whole damn supermarket.” They didn’t even have _packaged_ bacon. Clarke was devastated.  


Bellamy snorts a laugh, shaking his head in amusement as she mutters darkly under her breath. He woke her up and is in far too good a mood. She’s just saying, it’s annoying.

“Why are you in such a good mood anyway?” She asks as she transfers her piece of fake meat onto his plate. It doesn’t even come close to the real thing.

“O called.” Clarke gestures for him to continue. “And she said that Lincoln’s family is insane,” he shrugs, offering another smile, mischievous this time. “It’s payback - she ditches me for Christmas and then has to deal with her boyfriend’s crazy family.”

Clarke tuts. “I hope you didn’t say that to _her_. She’d probably come back here to hug you and then beat you up.”

“That’s true,” he grants. A beat and “Plus you look ridiculous.”

“Hey!” She scolds, feigning offence. “These pyjamas are awesome. They can’t be a source of amusement for you.” They’re her Christmas pyjamas - a onesie with a Christmas stocking, Santa hat and candy cane pattern - and they’re _adorable,_ not ridiculous. He simply smiles, and Clarke would argue further, but doesn’t want to ruin the nice energy that’s flowing between them. 

“So I was thinking,” he says eventually, “that we should get a tree today.” She levels him with a blank look. “You know, seeing as the both of us will be around - might be nice to have one before the others get here.”  


“Do you really think that’s a good idea after last year?” She asks, dry. 

He huffs a breath, crossing his arms and giving her a _seriously?_ look, but really. Last year, when _Lincoln_ was supposed to be helping her pick out and bring home a tree, Bellamy was the one she found knocking on her door instead. Clarke’s not exactly sure what Octavia was expecting - perhaps that, being Christmas, they would bury the hatchet - but whatever it was, it didn’t happen.  It took over an _hour_ to agree on one, and the fact that it was _Clarke’s tree_ didn’t seem the faze Bellamy in the least. He simply stated that if she wanted to use his truck, which she did, they would be picking a better one. And sure, she could’ve agreed on any number of perfectly good trees he picked out, but Clarke’s a stubborn woman, and like hell she was giving him the satisfaction.

“God, _fine,_ ” she relents, rolling her eyes so he knows he’s being ridiculous. She receives another sunny smile in return and suspects it might’ve been his plan all along. 

***

The drive to the closest farm is forty minutes, and when Bellamy argues that it’s worth it to have more options (and Clarke groans just to be combative), it reminds her of how much he loves Christmas. She asked him last year, annoyed and exasperated and mostly rhetorical, and immediately softened with his explanation. _We never had much, but Christmas with Octavia was always special._

Despite her annoyance, the drive itself is actually enjoyable. It’s a nice atmosphere, warm and comfortable, and while she and Bellamy remain mostly silent - only speaking when Clarke offers directions - it’s not the tense sort. She reads her book, actively stopping herself from singing along to Bellamy’s music (because she grumbled about his rule of _my car, my music,_ and again, she’s stubborn) and is close to dozing off before he asks how far down the turn off is. She’s a little less bitter this time.

They pull into a private road just past eleven, Clarke gazing out the window to find acres upon acres of pines, a small amount of snow littering the branches. She hadn’t even realised it _was_ snowing, but it is, falling from the sky at an almost leisurely pace. It has a nice effect on the trees, beautiful and seasonally appropriate - it just _looks_ like Christmas.

An older man greets them at the gate, an axe in one hand and a mug of what smells to be hard cider in the other, and Clarke thinks he looks a little like Santa’s supposed to - pot-bellied with a big, bushy, white beard. He instructs them to look around and call for one of the workers when they find _the right tree for them,_ chuckling as they smile and thank him, like he’s in on some sort of inside joke (she thinks she knows the punchline). They trudge past him and down the centre walkway, their boots getting dirty with a combination of grass and dirt and snow in no time at all. It doesn’t take an hour this year, but they still argue (all in good nature) about what’s more important - height (Bellamy) or non-patchiness (Clarke). She’s obviously right, because who wants a _patchy_ tree, but they find one that suits both their criteria relatively easily. 

Bellamy fetches one of the workers while Clarke stands watch - because it’s a _good_ tree, and she doesn’t want any other slackers trying to steal it - and it’s cut down, falling slowly with a dull _whoomp_ on the wet ground. They carry it back to the car park, Bellamy settling it in the bed of his truck while Clarke goes to pay the older man.

“Y’all are a lovely couple,” he tells her with an easy smile, accepting the cash she hands over.

“We’re actually just friends,” she explains with what she’s hoping is a non-brittle-smile.

“Huh,” he says, tone a little disbelieving, his eyebrows raised. “Fight like a couple, anyhow,” he chuckles. “We’ve got some hot apple cider going on inside if y’all are interested. Nice on a day like this.” He nods back to the small cabin close by.

“That sounds lovely, thanks,” she smiles, following him into the cabin. 

She buys two to go, both non-alcoholic because she’d feel guilty about drinking when he has to drive, and leaves the man and his wife with a wide smile and genuine thanks. She places one of the mugs (she had to _buy_ them because they didn’t bring their own), in Bellamy’s hand, and he looks kind of surprised with the gesture.

“Thanks,” he says hesitantly, like she’ll take it back if he’s not careful.

They hop back into the car, an easy and comfortable silence settling upon them again - it seems they really _can_ be friendly two days in a row - and by the time they arrive back at the cabin Clarke’s feeling a nice warmth in her belly. From the cider, she’s sure. 

After bickering about the placement of the tree in the living room for five minutes, Clarke leaves to find the box of tree ornaments from the attic. It’s the kind that opens from the ceiling with a ladder that retracts, so she jumps, reaching the dangling handle, and pulls it down. The attic is small and stuffy (so an attic, really), and along with the box of ornaments, she also finds the box of costumes that were left here a decade and a half ago. She brings those downstairs too, for good measure (okay, because she really wants to find her tiny dance costumes from when she was six). 

Bellamy offers her a beer when she returns to the living area, and she accepts it with a smile. They put on some music - more carols - and sort through the ornaments, deciding which ones they’ll use. (Bellamy finds some of Clarke’s homemade ones, and she scowls at his teasing.)

“Wanna hear something dumb?” Clarke offers while they’re down to the last few baubles. They’ve been chatting away easily throughout the whole process, and she’s beginning to think that _yeah,_ they can do this. 

“Always.”

“I thought that trimming a tree was literally cutting it until I was like, seventeen and someone told me it meant decorating.”

Bellamy snorts, looks a little disbelieving. “That is dumb.”

“Shut up,” she says, unable to bite back the grin beginning to spread on her face. 

He bumps his shoulder against hers, smiling down warmly.

“Here.” He hands over the star to top the tree. “If you can reach,” he teases. 

She _can_ reach, thank you very much, because in contrary to what Bellamy believes, she’s not _that short._

“Are you kidding? You’re practically pocket-sized,” he laughs, patting her on the head as if it proves his point. 

Clarke tries to scowl, but finds that she can’t - her fondness for the boy winning out - and she decides that trying to fight the smile tugging at her lips would make him laugh even more, so she doesn’t. They settle onto the couch and as Bellamy choses another seasonal movie, handing over a knitted blanket so she’ll stay toasty, it feels just how it did when they first met: fun and silly and easy and warm. 

She sometimes does that, actually - split him into two categories: before and after - because when she starts thinking of them as the same person, she gets a headache and a heavy heart. But yeah, today feels a lot like before Bellamy (as do most of the good days they have together). It’s the Bellamy she would smile stupidly at, a goofy grin that she wouldn’t be embarrassed about because she was with _him_ and he’d usually return it; the one who would whisper secrets to her in the dark of the night, showing a vulnerability that he wouldn’t allow during daytime; the one who would make her _laugh_ , would tease her and be teased back relentlessly; the one who kissed her soundly whenever he realised she was going to win an argument, and the only one she allowed herself to not win for. 

The one she fell for.

And she still feels it - that tinge in her stomach, the fluttering of butterflies as they find a home there - when he laughs at a joke she’s just told, or when his eyes crinkle from the wide smile directed at her, or when he bumps their shoulders together companionably as their friends go on yet _another_ rant about the pair, or when he offers an opening for her to tease him when he can tell she’s having a particularly shitty day. On their good days she still feels it, and she wonders if there’s a time she won’t, if she’ll ever _completely_ get over him. She’s not pining, she honestly isn’t, but. She could get to that point - probably ridiculously quickly if she let herself. She may not be pining and she knows she doesn’t love him, but he’s always present, always a reminder of what could’ve been, and she’s always going to wonder if things could’ve been different. 

A sad smile graces her face with the thought, because it’s not what she wants. She doesn’t want to wonder, but the alternative is something she’s not ready for either - not when she has no idea of his thoughts. Maybe friends really did means friends, or maybe he just wants to make things easier for their friends, for Octavia. She doesn’t want to consider a different maybe; one where he feels the same, where he regrets the past and hopes for the future.

Clarke’s broken from her thoughts at the weight of Bellamy’s gaze on her, but she decides to ignore it and continue watching the screen. There’s something going on about a cursed sleigh, she’s pretty sure, and she didn’t think this was a holiday horror, but who knows, really.  But he continues glancing at her every minute or so, and eventually she’s sick of it so whips her eyes to him and stares expectantly.

“Sorry,” he offers, his expression and tone both sheepish. “I was just, uh - wondering what happened with your mum.” She raises an eyebrow at him and he seems to look even more sheepish, even apologetic.

“I’m going to need a lot more alcohol to answer that one,” she states, dry.

“We can do that,” he says, getting to his feet. “There’s only eggnog and shitty beer here, but maybe we could buy a bottle of something? And get the groceries for the week, too. Only if you want to,” he continues hastily, stuttering out his next spiel. “Like, I’m happy to talk, if you want to but, don’t, you know, feel pressured.”

Clarke laughs, smiling wryly, and offers her hands. “Pull me up.”

He does, holding onto her hands for a beat longer than necessary, and they head to the supermarket. Bellamy makes a list on his phone as she drives, and they agree to save all the traditional feast food for the big group Christmas, and only have something small on the actual day. 

The group Christmas is for nine, so by the time they’ve found everything they’ll need to cook the feast, as well as some extra stuff Clarke insists on and the alcohol they choose, the total is north of $100. 

“Here,” Bellamy offers. “I’ll pay.”

“It’s fine.” Clarke swats his hand away, pulling out her purse.

“Really,” he continues, his voice slightly harder than it was a few seconds ago. 

“Seriously, I can afford it, Bellamy. It’s fine,” she insists.

He doesn’t reply, but she can _feel_ his irate, and she wishes she wasn’t so in tune with his emotions, but. Apparently she still is. 

They make it to the car, settling the bags of groceries in the boot and pulling onto the road before he speaks again.

“I could afford it, too, Clarke.” His voice is still hard, but she can hear the hints of defensiveness in it, too.

“I wasn’t questioning that, Bellamy. But there was stuff in there specifically for me, so it doesn’t make sense for you to pay for it.”  


“And there’s also stuff for everyone to eat.”

“Which I can afford!” She exclaims.

“I’m _well_ aware that you can afford it, _princess_ ,” he replies darkly, the disgust in the nickname not unfamiliar yet still hurtful.

She doesn’t respond, because she’s driving and knows better than have an argument in the car.

As soon as they arrive home she jumps out, slamming her car door shut and going to the groceries. Bellamy follows a beat later, and she expertly ignores him as they work together.

“You know what, Bellamy,” she fumes, her voice getting louder with each word. She’s finished putting the food away, and he was just about to leave the room, and like hell she was letting him get away with that. He turns, folding his arms across his chest and clenching his jaw. “I’m getting really fucking sick of the money shit you keep holding onto, so figure out whether you actually want this ‘friendship’,” she air quotes, “and stop being such a fucking dick.” 

She storms past him, registering the way his eyes soften, and goes straight to her bedroom. 

He doesn’t follow.

***

Clarke wakes up to knocking.

She doesn’t even remember falling asleep, and registers the piece of charcoal in her hand, the dark smudges on her fingers and sheets surrounding her. It’s coming back, the sketch book sitting on her lap a reminder of the emotions she was feeling in the middle of the night, dark and angry.

She was able to avoid him for the rest of the night, which she’s considering as an accomplishment when she stormed to her room just past three. She fell asleep after about an hour of fuming, the emotional energy spent at the thought of Bellamy Blake knocking her out quickly. It was the early hours of the morning that she woke again, sneaking downstairs and finding some leftovers, and returning to her room to release her feelings with the stroke of her charcoal. 

She felt awful (she always does when they fight for real (she doesn't  _enjoy_ it, they're just combative in nature)), but there was something else as well. Almost a sense of relief, her heart relaxing even with the anger running hot through her body. Because it was going well - so incredibly well, actually - and she was _happy_ it was going well, which. It felt dangerous, brought her back to a time she tried hard to forget, and it was something she didn’t know how to handle. 

But this - the sharp turn from warm companionship to harsh words - she’s used to. She knows how to deal with an angry Bellamy, one that’s hot headed and uses a nickname against her and doesn’t care where his blows land (one that is very similar to an angry Clarke), and can find a small amount of comfort that their relationship isn’t actually changing as much as she thought. The spell has been broken, and she's saved from the strong sense of uncertainty that tugs at her stomach.

It's a comfort. At least now she knows where they stand. 

“What?” She sits up in her bed, bringing one of the large pillows behind her to rest against.

The door is pushed open slowly, and Clarke can tell that Bellamy is hesitant in his approach. He sits down at the foot of her bed, wringing his hands together with his head bowed.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, raising his gaze to catch Clarke’s eyes. He looks genuine, and she knows him - he doesn’t apologise unless he means it.

Clarke nods, looks down to her own hands wringing together in her lap. She’s not sure where that leaves her, or them.

“I’m trying to work on it,” he continues, “and I know that I can get a little…defensive about money.” Clarke snorts a laugh, unable to stop the sound leaving her, and when she looks up Bellamy’s offering an almost helpless smile. “But I am trying to work on it, and it’s not fair of me to hold it against you.” 

“Thank you,” she responds softly, the words genuine, and he nods in return, standing up and heading to the door.

“And I want to be friends, Clarke,” he says once reaching the door. “Despite being an ass, I was being honest when I said that.”

“So was I,” she responds, the words not feeling enough but still holding so much weight. Once again it leaves her feeling uncertain. 

The smile he sends her, warm and blinding, more than makes up for it.

***

A bottle of vodka drops into her lap, and after letting out a small squeak of surprise Clarke raises her head, finding the smirk she’s all too familiar with dancing on Bellamy’s lips.

“What’s this for?”

“Well,” he slumps down next to her on the couch, peeking over her shoulder to see what she’s working on. He seems to get distracted, which is honestly flattering, and only continues when Clarke elbows him in the side. He shakes his head, clearing his thoughts. “Right. Well, seeing as we detoured from last nights plans,” he offers a wry smile, “I thought we could get back on track tonight.” 

They haven’t spoken more of the fight, but the truce still continues. Bellamy brought her breakfast in bed - waffles this time - as a second apology of sorts, and while it wasn’t necessary, Clarke would never say no to food. 

It’s the first day she’s been able to relax in the way she intended when arriving at the old house. The cabin has a way of inspiring Clarke, perhaps because it’s a sure place of happy memories, or perhaps because it always makes her feel closer to her father. He always supported Clarke’s art, from when it was crayon drawings of stick figures and the sun, to her final folio in her sophomore year of college, and she remembers how they’d set up easels side by side, spend all afternoon working on their artwork in each other’s happy company.

Today she worked on a piece that came from a vague memory of hers. She was young, she remembers, and her dad had driven the two of them out to a serene forest for the day. It was picturesque in the way that postcards are - looking completely untouched by humans save for the makeshift path created by the number of people that have trudged through. 

She doesn’t remember it completely, not what they did during the day or where the forest actually was, but the feelings that come with the memory - being safe and warm and loved - are strong, urging her hand to pick up a pencil and letting it recreate the scene in her mind on paper.

She closes her sketchbook, happy with the progress she made throughout the day, and focuses her attentions on the man next to her.

“Sounds good to me,” she says, picking up the bottle of vodka and walking to the kitchen. She pours them both a shot, handing one of the glasses to him. 

It’s familiar, picking up the shots and clinking them together in cheers before downing them. 

Two rounds of shots, an early dinner of bread and dip, and what she’s pretty sure is four mixed drinks later, they’re lying on the living room floor. Clarke pestered Bellamy into getting a fire going, because she’s got what she argues is a totally rational fear of actually _starting_ a fire, and it crackles away near them, warming Clarke’s toes. The lights around the tree cast a yellow glow around the room, the atmosphere of it relaxed and cosy.  


“So I was pretty annoyed,” she slurs, her arms flailing in the air as she tries to keep them up. She thinks she’s trying to reach something, but can’t remember exactly. “Because it was my _birthday_ , Bellamy, and she definitely didn’t need to bring up the fact that I was ruining my life at that particular moment.”  


Bellamy hums in agreement, hand darting up to catch hers. He links their fingers together and their hands fall between the pair.

They’d gotten side tracked once the bottle had been opened, Clarke asking how Bellamy’s new apartment was treating him, which accidentally led to a half hour rant about how expensive transport was in the city, and then rent, and then take out (although they agreed on the fact that it was worth it, because _Noodle Palace_ was the fucking best). They eventually got back onto the original matter at hand, and Clarke began explaining how she was greeted to her mother’s home with another one of her speeches, questioning Clarke’s life choices. 

“And she always does this,” she continues, lifting her hands (and his) in frustration. “Like, she can’t just let me have _one_ day off, _no_ , she has to tell me that I can’t support myself with my art, and that there’s still time to go to med school.”  


“Sounds like a bitch,” Bellamy responds and Clarke snorts out a laugh.  


“I think that’s the kind of thing I can say but you can’t,” she muses.  


“Sorry.” He doesn’t sound all that sorry.  


“It’s okay,” Clarke sighs. “It’s just - she’s still my mum, you know? And despite this happening all the time it still hurts that she chooses not to support me.”

“Yeah. I am sorry, Clarke.” He sounds more genuine this time. 

“Not your fault,” she shrugs. “But that wasn’t even it. I’m used to that shit.” He squeezes her hand, supportive. “She gave me a letter,” she says eventually, voice only a whisper. “From my dad.”

His head turns, his cheek pressing on the floor so he can look at Clarke. She does the same. 

“When he got sick he gave it to mum,” she explains, “told her to give it to me on my twenty fourth birthday. I didn’t want to read it and she got mad, saying it was his last wish, and I just - left. It’s just - they split up when I was fifteen, and it wasn’t exactly amicable, and then she had the nerve to act like she _knew_ him, knew him better than I did and that I was betraying him or something. It all got a bit too much so I decided to leave.”

Bellamy nods, smiling softly before speaking. “Why didn’t you want to read it?”

She exhales a deep breath. “I feel like I’ve been given this incredible gift, and there’s hope in that, a sort of comfort knowing that there’s a part of my father I haven’t discovered yet. It’s just - if I read it - the last words of his I’ll be able to read for the first time - then I lose that comfort. He’s really gone, and while I’ve already said goodbye and accepted his death, it’s different when I have that feeling of finality weighing on me. I’m just not ready. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah,” he says quietly, his thumb rubbing Clarke's hand, and she thinks he understands. 

They continue watching each other, their faces just a whisper away. He looks younger like this, the creases that form on his face so often softening, his skin glowing in the yellow light and his hair mussed in an array of wild curls. His eyes flick to her lips, and she wouldn’t even need to lean in far, not really, and she’s going to, because his gaze is heated and his lips too tempting, but -

A phone chirps, and they both start, pulling away slightly.

It’s Bellamy’s, and he pulls it out of his pocket, releasing Clarke’s hand to navigate (because he’s an old man, honestly). 

“Holy shit,” he laughs, a grin spreading across his face quickly.

“What?” Clarke asks, and he hands his phone over in response.

_Monty said yes._

“What!?” Clarke exclaims, gaping as she looks back to Bellamy. His smile is wide and warm, and he nods.

“I know!”

“Holy shit,” she echoes. “Did you know?”

“Helped Miller pick out the ring,” he smirks, and Clarke’s heart stutters at that, because Bellamy Blake picking out an engagement ring? Adorable.

“Fuck man,” she laughs, settling her head back on the ground. “The first of our friends to get engaged.” 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “They met after _we_ did, and now they’re _engaged._ That’s insane.”

It is insane, and the thought brings up another wave of _what if_ s she’s not ready to think about. A silence fills the space between them, weighty but not intrusive, and Clarke sighs, her gaze flickering over his face. 

“Yeah,” she sighs, rolling her head to look at the ceiling instead. “It is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments/ kudos are very welcome!!  
> Thank you :)


	3. 25.12/26.12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo, this is a much longer chapter, close to 9.5K words.  
> Warning: I've decided to make this E (which soz if that gives some stuff away about the chapter), and also, there is talk of periods in this one, so if you're squirmish sorry (it's not explicit at all, but like... idk some people are sensitive i thought i should warn).  
> We're halfway through after this chapter!!! Well, of 'present time', the last chapter will be an epilogue.  
> Hope you enjoy as always!!

_June and July, 2014._

_“Bellamy,” Clarke whispers, nudging his shoulder with her forehead._

_He groans in response, an arm moving to cover his face and Clarke sighs, slumping onto her back to stare at the ceiling. She could leave, yeah, but she was kind of betting on morning sex and doesn’t really want to sneak out before he’s awake (she's not sure he'd care all that much, but thinks (hopes) he might miss the morning sex a bit, too)._

_What she does want is coffee, but it’s the first time they’ve slept at either of their places since the booty calls started, and she’s not sure how he would take to her roaming around his apartment by herself._

_It took two weeks after the first text to get together again, and then ten days after that, and then six, and then four, and now it’s the middle of June and they’re pretty much sleeping together at least twice a week. So she’s pretty used to leaving soon after sex (as is he), but yesterday she finished her last exam for her entire degree and was celebrating with her friends until the early hours of the morning, and by the time Bellamy texted her and they went a round, she was close to dead and he told her to stay over, that he didn’t mind._

_So here she is, staring at the ceiling with a dead-to-the-world Bellamy beside her as she contemplates her next move._

_“Fuck it,” she mutters, rolling out of bed and shrugging on one of Bellamy’s shirts (there’s no way she’s pulling on her dress just to walk around inside)._

_She’s seen his apartment during the day (even christened a few surfaces around it), but it’s a little odd to be walking around by herself. She feels like she’s trespassing somehow, and is trying to up her stealth as she shuffles to the kitchen and flicks on the kettle. As she’s opening cupboards, trying to find where the mugs live, someone clears their throat behind her._

_She turns around, finding a vaguely familiar looking man watching her with amusement. She tries to place him, because she knows they’ve at least met, and it’s not at the apartment, but it does have something to do with Bellamy. Finally it clicks and -_

_“Bartender,” she says dumbly, immediately regretting it because_ really, _Clarke?_ Bartender?

_He doesn’t seem to mind though, just chuckles as he walks further into the kitchen._ _  
_

_“I normally go by Miller,” he says, opening a cupboard and pulling out two mugs._

_“Sorry,” she says sheepish. “Been a while.” Six months, actually, and fuck - she was trying to_ hit on him _the night she met Bellamy, which is somewhere between mortifying and hilarious._

_“No worries, uh…”  
_

_“Clarke,” she supplies, wringing her hands together. Meeting the roommate doesn’t really seem part of her and Bellamy’s…arrangement (although she guesses she’s technically already met him)._

_“Clarke,” he repeats with a nod. “Tea or coffee?”_

_“Coffee, thanks,” she says with a smile, and he nods again, starting on a pot. “So this is awkward,” she states eventually. Apparently her brain-to-mouth filter isn’t working this morning._

_He chuckles, shaking his head. “Don’t worry, I’m used to it.” She raises an eyebrow and watches as he realises what he just implied, eyes widening. “Not like tha- well, yes, it is, but…Shit. Sorry.”  
_

_Clarke laughs, and he relaxes with the sound. “Not a problem.” She’s slept with one person since everything with Bellamy started, because they haven’t set any ground rules stating they can’t and the girl was really fucking hot. She’s not surprised he’s done the same._

_He smiles and it somehow feels like an accomplishment._

_“Milk and sugar?”_

_“Just milk, thanks,” she says, and he prepares her coffee before sliding it over. Clarke sighs after her first sip (she’s not exactly a morning person), settling into one of the bar stools._

_They chat for a while, and it’s surprisingly nice. She doesn’t know anything about him, because Bellamy and her rarely talk more than pleasantries and what position they’re feeling that day, so it’s mostly small talk. It’s weird, but within twenty minutes she feels like she knows more about him than she does Bellamy. All she really knows about Bellamy is that he’s twenty six, has a sister, is a high school teacher (she doesn't even know the subject), and really enjoys going down on girls._

_Just when she’s telling Miller about the job she’s starting now that she’s officially finished her degree, they’re interrupted._

_“What’s going on?” Bellamy asks from his bedroom door, voice thick with sleep. She turns around, finding him running a hand through his hair and only wearing a pair of boxers._

_“Coffee,” she and Miller answer in unison, and Clarke smirks at Bellamy’s furrowed brow._

_“Why didn’t you wake me?”_

_“I tried!” Clarke exclaims. “But you just groaned at me. And I needed coffee to wake up.”_

_“I can think of a few better ways to wake you up,” he smirks._

_“And that’s my cue to leave,” Miller mutters, shuffling towards the hallways. “Nice to see you again, Clarke.”  
_

_“_ _You too, Miller.”_

_Clarke settles her coffee on the kitchen counter and saunters over to Bellamy. He’s wearing a very smug grin, and she wouldn’t mind kissing it off him._

_“What were you two chatting about?”_

_She puts her hands on his shoulders, pushing him back into the room as she starts trailing her lips up his neck and along his jaw._

_“Oh nothing,” she replies in between kisses, cheeky. “Just that Miller’s used to making small talk with the hundreds of girls you apparently bring home.”_

_“Ass,” Bellamy chuckles, falling onto the bed._

_“Uh-huh,” Clarke says, offering a cheshire cat grin as she sits in his lap before finally kissing him._

_It’s easy after that, because after eight weeks she knows exactly what to do to get Bellamy practically begging for her. He takes her from behind, and then she blows him when they’re having a shower, and she’s grinning smugly for the rest of the day because this booty call thing she’s got going on is really working out for her._

_***_

_It’s not until the end of June that any of her friends catch on (which she’s pretty proud of, actually), and it’s only because Raven steals her phone while she’s trying to discretely text Bellamy and loudly declares “I knew you were getting laid!”_

_Clarke would be annoyed, but she’s honestly just glad that Raven doesn’t keep scrolling up, because they were sexting like, three days ago (which yeah, feels kind of weird considering they’re just booty calling each other, but he was horny and she couldn’t leave when all her friends were at her place, so she pretended to have a very long shower and well, it was a lot of fun and she only felt a little guilty)._

_Bellamy’s contact is the eggplant emoji, because Clarke is a classy lady, and she’s glad for him to remain anonymous when her friends can be so nosey._

_“Guy? Girl? Someone we know? Oh my god, Clarke, is it Sterling!?” Jasper exclaims (he’s about five beers in, not that him being sober would be all that different)._

_“No,” Clarke scoffs. “He’s had a girlfriend for like, two years. Also hooking up with your roommate? Dumb as fuck.”  
_

_“You really won’t tell us anything?” Monty inquires._

_Clarke sighs. “If you really need to know, it’s a guy, and we’re just sleeping together. Not that I have to explain myself, but-” she takes a long sip of her pint “-after everything with Finn, it’s been nice to have some fun without being worried about feelings.”_

_“I hear that, babe,” Raven says, and they toast the words. Clarke knows Raven’s been sleeping with Scruffy for the last two months or so._

_The topic is dropped until the end of the night when Wells pulls her aside._

_“Just be careful, Clarke.”  
_

_“_ _Wells, it’s fine. I’m fine. Really.”_

_“I know you say that now, but I’ve known you my whole life, and I know you can fall for someone before you’ve even realised you’re doing it.”_

_“It’s not like that. I’ll be fine,” she insists, and adds “But thank you. I’ll be careful,” because she knows Wells is just looking out for her, just as she does for him._

_And it is fine. It’s fine until it isn’t._

_This is what gets her: It’s the middle of July and they’ve been sleeping with each other for about three months when Clarke wakes up in his bed. Now that’s not an unusual morning anymore, because somewhere along the way they decided to just stay over when they were too tired to leave. What is unusual is that she’s got her period. A week early. She curses herself; this is only happening because she hasn’t had a chance to renew her prescription to the pill, and of course it fucks her over at the worst of times._

_Bellamy isn’t in bed, which is a small relief, but all of that leaves when she looks down to find a blood stain on his sheets. It’s so incredibly mortifying that Clarke wants to leave his apartment and never come back. She doesn’t even have any tampons or pads, because again, it’s a week early, and she came to his place after going to a bar._

_Once she gets up, putting on her own clothes for once, she realises that Bellamy isn’t just not in bed, he’s not in the apartment. She swears, because this is such a horrifying situation, but she can’t exactly leave, not when his sheets have a fucking blood stain on them. She decides to strip the bed, throwing the sheets into the washing machine after working out how to use it, and then, because she’s feeling gross, decides to have a shower, assuming Bellamy had to leave for some emergency and wouldn't be coming back any time soon. (They’ve done it before, so she knows it’s okay, and while she kind of wants to run, her body is feeling yuck and clammy so her desire to shower wins out)._

_She’s in there when the sound of the front door opening and closing reaches her, and she groans, forehead falling against the tile wall of the shower, because that’ll be Bellamy (she knows Miller’s hours - which is only slightly concerning - and he should already be at work).  
_

_To her surprise, the bathroom door opens, and Bellamy’s voice wafts through the area._

_“Hey, sorry I just had to go grab some stuff. Do you want coffee or tea? Hot chocolate maybe?”_

_“Tea would be great, thanks,” she replies, not facing him because she’s still too embarrassed._

_He doesn’t respond, or thankfully make any move to join her, and Clarke’s left to finish her shower alone._

_She’s feeling a little bit better when she hops out, and once she’s wrapped a towel around her, her eyes land on a small pile of things sitting at the door. It’s clothes, she realises, with a plastic bag on top._

_And in that plastic bag is a box of tampons and a packet of pads. And that’s what gets her._

_The clothes left are Bellamy’s. A pair of comfy sweatpants that are too long on her, and a hoodie which Clarke recognises must be from the college he went to. She pulls them on, because her clothes smell like alcohol and smoke and are much too tight for the cramps she’s already feeling, and by the time she walks out of the bathroom, she finds Bellamy on the couch, two mugs on the coffee table._

_“Hey,” he greets, smile soft. She can feel blood rush to her face, because_ fuck. _This isn’t something he’d want to deal with, and she’s not sure why he’s bothering._

_“Hey,” she says, worrying her lips. “Thanks,” she gets out, because she’s not rude. “For um, yeah… and the clothes.”_

_“No worries,” he replies, handing over a mug. “I practically raised my sister, so I like to think I’m not a dick.”  
_

_“You raised your sister?” She asks despite herself._

_He shrugs. “Mum worked a lot and we couldn’t exactly afford baby sitters or anything, so I was the one who looked after her most of the time.”  
_

_“Oh,” she says, not really sure how to respond to that. It’s the most they’ve really told each other. She takes a sip of her tea, the hot liquid relaxing her muscles, and notes that he remembered how she takes it. It shouldn’t be that much of a surprise, but she’s shocked nonetheless._

_“I never had siblings,” she says after a few moments. It feels like she should offer something about her life now that he has. “But I grew up with a friend of mine, Wells, and he’s probably the closest thing I have to one. We’ve always looked out for each other and stuff, so I kind of get it. Even without a brother I still had people I dated getting the ‘big brother’ speech.” She chuckles quietly, smiling into her mug._

_When she looks up his gaze is inquisitive, like he wants to ask more but isn’t sure he can, so instead attempts to study her._

_“Anyway, thanks for the clothes,” she says, standing up. “I’ll get out of your hair now, but um, I’ll make sure you get them back.”_

_“Wait,” he calls. When she turns around he looks shy, a slight pink tinge to his skin. “You can leave if you want, of course, but I got some stuff if you don't feel like travelling just yet. I have the day off, obviously, so-” he runs a hand through his hair and shrugs.  
_

_“Oh. Okay,” she says, a small smile playing on her lips. “That’d be nice.” She’s already feeling crappy and wouldn’t mind not having to weather the half hour journey home in the morning traffic. She settles back onto the couch, and he hands over the remote before getting up himself. She navigates to Netflix, getting a small glimpse into his life (he’s really into documentaries, apparently) and finds something trashy to watch._

_Bellamy doesn’t comment when he returns, simply hands her a plastic bag and a hot water bottle. She looks up to him with wide eyes, and his are softer than she’s ever seen. She settles the hot water bottle over her belly, and looks into the bag, finding an assortment of junk food and a packet of aspirin._

_“Didn’t know what you liked,” he tells her, dropping onto the couch next to her. He looks sheepish again, and she’s so surprised at how the past five minutes have gone that she simply leans in, pressing a soft kiss onto his lips.  
_

_“_ _Thank you,” she says, and this is how it begins._

_\--- --- ---_

“Bellamy,” Clarke warns, raising her hands in a placating manner as she slowly steps backwards. The crunch of the snow and leaves under her foot gives away her intentions, and Bellamy raises his hand further, ready to attack. “You don’t want to start this.”  


“Oh, princess, I think I do.” His grin is wolfish, his eyes swimming with so much excitement she forgets that he’s twenty eight and not ten, and she’s wondering how exactly she got into this position. 

“Bella-” She’s cut off by a cold slap to her cheek, and the broken snowball slides down her face, leaving a chilly, wet trail in its wake. She blinks, taken aback despite herself, and brings a gloved hand to her face, wiping her skin dry before raising an eyebrow. “Oh, it is _so_ on, Blake.”

“Bring it, Griffin,” he smirks, already dipping down to pick up some more snow.

He gets in another hit, but this time Clarke’s ready, and the impact is pillowed by the puffer jacket she’s wearing to keep out the cold (and apparently the snow). She throws one at him, hard, because this is war and not one she’s willing to lose, and cackles when it hits him on the nose. 

He grins at her, not upset in the least, and it continues like that - bright smiles and hearty laughs as they deliver their own blows and try to dodge the other’s. They continue for a long time, probably close to forty minutes, which is a real accomplishment with how much effort they put in - there’re forts and tactics and at one point, Clarke recruiting two young children she finds strolling in the park with their family, teaming up so they can all attack Bellamy from different angles.

She’s pretty sure her face is flushed pink, a combination of the cold and her efforts, and she can feel the wide grin spread across her face. It feels like it could be permanent. Bellamy’s wearing one to rival hers, his eyes bright and filled with mirth, and Clarke forgets that they aren’t always like this, that she’s not supposed to have feelings for him anymore. 

It comes to a crashing end when Clarke’s small snow fort is destroyed and Bellamy comes charging for her. She’s able to get an already-made snowball to his head, the snow crumpling in his hair, making it even more damp than the past forty minutes has, before he lunges, toppling Clarke over with the dive. They land in the snow, which isn’t as soft as it could be, with a loud and wet _thwump,_ and Clarke laughs despite the pain, throwing her head back and letting it land in the snow like it’s a pillow. 

She doesn’t completely register that Bellamy’s _on top of her_ until their laughter fades, and when she looks up, his smile isn’t as wide, but just as warm. He’s bracing himself over her, their legs tangled together and the heat of his torso radiating to her despite the layers of clothing between them. He brings a hand up to her head, pulling off her beanie — it’s pink; the kind with a fluffy pompom at the top, and two dangling from either side. Her friends like the play with them like they’re cats — and tucks the hair that’s on her face, messy and frizzy, behind her ear. He cradles her cheek for a moment, and she leans into his touch, subconscious, but before she can register what that means or what it could possibly lead to, he gets to his feet, creating some space between them.

“Hey, Clarke,” he says, voice quiet but teasing.

“Yeah?” She asks, still lying down on the blanket of snow. He’s looming above her now, and it reminds her of something - of how he tucked her in that first night, and how she looked up to him and felt very small. 

“Do you want to build a snowman?” He sings, and _god,_ he seriously can’t hold pitch for shit, but even that makes Clarke feel a surge of fondness for the boy. She laughs, and he pulls her up, and the moment from before is gone but not forgotten.

“Come on lets go and play,” she quips back once she’s on her feet. He grins, smug like he’s somehow won something, and Clarke rolls her eyes in return.

They do actually decide to build a snowman, and somewhere between piling up snow in a large, vaguely triangular form, and finding little pieces of bark to give it a face, she’s overcome by a strong surge of nostalgia. It rushes through her body, memories of her childhood flushing straight to the surface as she and Bellamy wrap a scarf around the heap of snow, put Clarke’s beanie on the top as a final flourish, like a star on a Christmas tree. 

And this is how she spent winter breaks with her family as a child, with snow fights and snow angels and snowmen, making little versions of their family, their forms - two adults and a small child - pressed into the snow like some sort of promise, at least until the next day when a new sheet of white had covered the old. This is where she would feel happy and loved, and everything was easy; where Clarke’s parents would indulge her in the childish games she’d want to play, and when she had finally tired herself out, where they’d return to the cabin, a mug of hot chocolate with marshmallows warming her up after the afternoon in the chilly weather. It was a time when Clarke didn’t know that her parents would fall out of love, or that her father would go to the hospital one day, only to find out there was nothing that could be done, that his time was up. It was a time before she realised people could disappoint you, that it was often the ones you loved that hurt you the most, that trust is something formed and _earned_ over time, but can be broken in less than a second, shattering like something delicate and expensive.

She looks to Bellamy, his smile wide as he snaps a few photos of their creation (named Sigmund (she's not sure why)) to send to Octavia. It was a time before she knew first hand how things could fuck up - good things, great even - and that it’s not always someone's fault. 

And part of her wishes she could go back to that time when she was a child, innocent and naive to the woes of the world, because she doesn’t always want to know these things - they weigh on her chest and oftentimes make it difficult for her to breathe - but when Bellamy looks back, brown eyes searching her blue ones, the wish doesn’t stick. 

Because while it would be lovely to return to a simpler time, wish to live in a world where the terrible things that have happened in her life never had, it would be a world without the knowledge that two of her friends just got engaged. And it would be a world where she never met her best friend, and it would be one where she hadn’t introduced two people she loved and watch them fall in love with each other, and it would be a world where she didn’t find something she was truly passionate about. And really, it would be a world without him.

Because even though the thought scares her to all hell, that Bellamy Blake is still someone she considers central to her life, she knows that it’s true. And she wonders when that became a positive thing for her, when it felt like he wasn’t just central to her life but maybe also to her existence. And despite everything, she still has hope that they can make it. She’s not sure in what capacity, but in some way or another, she hopes they make it.

“You okay?” Bellamy asks, soft.

“Yeah,” she says, stepping into his side and tucking herself under his arm. It feels right. “I’m good.”

***

“Whatcha making?” Clarke asks, perching herself up onto the kitchen counter and swinging her feet against the cabinets.

“Chicken adobo,” he answers, chopping away next to her.  


Clarke pours herself a glass of wine, and tops up Bellamy’s. It’s her first Christmas that’s felt this relaxed in years - no where to be and nobody to entertain, and Clarke’s feeling quite grateful that Bellamy decided to come up to the cabin. 

“Want any help?”

Bellamy looks up at her, a little disbelieving. “You’re not the best chef, Clarke.”  


Clarke scoffs, knowing it’s true but not wanting to admit it. She knows where her talents lie, and they aren't really in the kitchen.

“You can just keep me company, though,” Bellamy offers, focusing back on the chicken he’s cutting up.

She settles herself onto one of the bar stools so she isn’t in his way, taking a long sip before speaking again.

“Chicken adobo, that’s what you’d have with your family ever year, right?” Clarke inquires, hoping it isn’t out of line. He doesn’t talk about his childhood all that much. Bellamy raises his gaze, surprised. “O told me,” she explains.  


“Of course,” he says, rolling his eyes, though Clarke can see the fond smile he’s trying to bite back.  


“You never really talk about her. Even…” she lets the word _before_ fall silently, knows Bellamy will understand what she’s talking about. 

“Not much to say, really.” She knows it’s not true, the stories Octavia's told Clarke about their childhood letting Clarke know otherwise, but she doesn’t want to push, especially when they’ve spent such a nice day together.  “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot,” she says, settling her glass down to give him her full attention. She brings her elbows to the counter, propping her head up with the palms of her hands.

“This place…” He trails off.  


“Not a question.” He huffs a breath out, shooting her a pleading look, and Clarke smiles. “My parents owned it. Or, well, technically my dad did. It was in his family for a few generations, and when it was officially passed onto him, he decided to get it fixed up. Both my parents came from money, so,” she shrugs, takes another sip of her wine. “We moved up here when I was about three, but when mum was offered a better position at a hospital in the city, decided to move back again. I think I was around ten years old.” 

“So that’s why you know a few people down here?” He asks, putting the chicken in a dish to marinate. 

“Yeah. Dad kept the place because it was in the family, you know? And we’d come down here for the breaks. A lot of the time mum couldn’t, but dad could work from home most of the time, so we’d be able to spend time here over summer, as well as every Christmas.”

“Must’ve been nice,” he says, settling down next to her and taking a sip of his wine.

“Yeah, it was.” She smiles at the thought of her past, of all the memories that have been swirling through her mind today. “I was always closer with my dad, and after the divorce he moved back here, so I spent most of my breaks with him if I could. When he um-” she swallows, hard. “When he died, he left the house to me. Which, it makes sense, because he was an only child and I _am_ an only child, but it was still a shock. It was hard at first, because I had to deal with all his stuff, and mum thought I should sell the house and invest the money, but…It’s where I grew up, you know? It’s where so many of my memories of dad are, and… I kind of thought it’d be the place I would end up having children. Close to the city but far enough away that it doesn’t seem crowded. It sounds dumb, but I just couldn't sell it.” She shrugs again, and finishes her glass of wine. “I haven’t really told anyone that,” she admits.

“It’s not dumb, Clarke,” he says, taking her hand and lacing their fingers together. He watches them, linked, as he continues. “My mother wasn’t a very good mum. I only worked it out once I was older, and I realised that telling her six year old son that his sister was his responsibility was just - fucked up, honestly. But, she was still my mum, you know? And I still loved her.”  He raises his eyes to hers, as if seeking confirmation that she understands and isn’t judging. Whatever he sees must be enough, because he continues, soft. “When I started asking her about my father, because all the other kids in my class had dads, and I didn’t understand why I didn’t, she told me about him. He was a chef, she had said, loved a good lager, followed The New York Yankees and apparently read more books than she had ever thought possible. It’s where she said I got my love of reading from.” He smiles fondly. “They’d had one of those whirlwind romances you read about in book, both young and in love.” He’s looking away now, into the distance as if he could see the story he’s heard about if he just looked far enough back. “She got pregnant when she was twenty, and they were going to raise me together, but he died. Hit and run - a drunk driver - and just like that she was all alone.”  


“Bellamy, I’m so sorry,” she says, knowing it’s not enough, that it’ll never be enough. Because just like her father, there are no words that can offer solace when someone is taken for no reason at all. A drunk driver and he was left without a father. There’s nothing fair about that.

He brings his gaze back to her, and smiles. It’s a sad one, but a smile nonetheless.

“It’s not - I didn’t know him, so I can’t really miss him, can I? But I miss what I could’ve had. If he were around I could’ve had some semblance of a normal childhood, but mum was alone and had to make ends meet, so. It was never really an option.” They remain silent for a long while, both lost in their own thoughts, and finally he rounds back to the original prompt. “But one of the things she told me was that he was Filipino. That he’s where I got my darker skin and freckles and curly hair from,” he chuckles. “I latched onto that knowledge quite a lot; tried to learn about the country and the culture so I felt closer to him. The first Christmas O was home, mum made chicken adobo, and. I found out later it was pretty much the most Western Filipino meal," he chuckles, "but she still made the effort just for me, and it still meant a lot, still made me feel closer to the father I never knew. So yeah, my mother wasn’t always a very good mum, but she did try her best. It became a Christmas tradition after that, and even after she passed away, O and I would still have chicken adobo together every year without fail.”

“Until this year,” Clarke says his unsaid words.

“Until this year,” he agrees, hand tightening in hers.

She wants to do something, like bring it up to her face to kiss his knuckles, or lean in to press her lips to the corner of his mouth, just the way she remembers he likes, but she can’t. So instead she offers a smile, and when she receives one back, she knows that he’s going to be okay.

***

“We’ve been good at this,” Clarke murmurs, her cheek pressed against his chest. She can feel it rise and fall with each breath, can feel the beat of his heart against her skin. It’s nice, she thinks, eyes closing heavily - nice to feel it against her body after so long, nice to feel the sure evidence of his life, strong and steady.

Dinner had been wonderful, just as Clarke suspected it would be, and their earlier conversations weren’t finished or forgotten. Instead they decided to spend the evening reminiscing on their childhood memories, both happy and sad - the two bottles of wines they’d started on making the sometimes difficult words come more easily. It reminded her of the times he’d confess his secrets, his worries and doubts and hopes, in the middle of the night, sometimes trailing them onto her skin as though Clarke could take away some of his pain, other times long after they’d fallen silent, when he must’ve thought she was no longer awake to hear. But this time there was nothing to hide behind, no sheets or darkness or promise of sleep, and she saw Bellamy for what he once was: a small and scared child who was just trying his best. It’d been one of their many points of conflict after she’d met Octavia, arguments about the way he treated his younger sister, like she was a child he was trying to control. But she understood a little more now; how that belief that he had to look after her, that she was his sole responsibility, was instilled into him at such a young age. Of course he was over-protective, and while she’s still glad the two siblings have made progress on that front, she does understand.

They’d decided to watch _Love Actually_ a little later on, because it’s always been a guilty pleasure of Clarke’s, and while he wouldn’t admit it, she knows that Bellamy always gets emotional about Emma Thompson. But halfway through the film they’d received news from Octavia. Apparently with the bad weather all flights had been delayed, and it was predicted to continue tomorrow. Everyone but Monty and Miller were flying interstate, so their friends had been left with similar fates. _We think it should be the 28th,_ O had texted, and while Bellamy had responded that it was okay, and to just stay safe, Clarke knew that he would be disappointed, upset that he wouldn’t be seeing his baby sister for those extra two days. 

So in an attempt to cheer him up, encouraged by the many glasses of wine they’d shared, she found an old mixed CD she had made and pulled him up to dance with her.

That was over an hour ago, their movements large and fast, the alcohol pulsing through their bodies making them jump and sway, sauntering around the living room, laughing and head bopping. But the wine has since dulled her senses, and they’d lost the ability to continue moving that much, or that quickly, so Bellamy took one of her hands and pulled Clarke into his chest. They’ve been dancing like that for the past twenty minutes, one of his hands resting on her waist, his thumb caressing the skin where her top’s risen, the other holding hers between their bodies.  


“What’ve we been good at?” He asks after a few moments, his voice slightly slurred and fuzzy. 

“Being nice to each other,” she replies, eyes still closed.

He chuckles, the sound deep and rough and his chest shaking against her. Clarke’s lips curl into a smile.

“We have been. We were always nice to each other before,” he muses, and she feels how his grip on her waist tightens with the words, just for a second.

She hums an agreement, continuing to sway with him in the middle of the room. What they’re doing probably can’t be considered dancing anymore, but it’s still nice. She feels impossibly safe in his arms, and the lingering sense of regret and sorrow that comes with the proximity is masked by the easy happiness creeping into her heart, the surge of butterflies that have come now that she can smell his scent - so distinctly Bellamy - and hear him breathe, feel every movement. 

“We’re pretty good at being horrible to each other too,” she says after a while. She’s not sure why she says it, but she’s glad he doesn’t move away, doesn’t want to refuse the acknowledgement or argue over it. Because they have been. These past few days have been nothing short of an anomaly, and it’s silly to think otherwise. They’ve been mean and rude and fought until their voices gave out, and ignoring it won’t actually help. If they’re to move on from this last year of their lives - she’s not sure what to - the past will have to be accepted and their harsh words forgiven. 

“We were never mean to each other before,” he says softly, just a whisper she can only hear because she’s so close. His voice is sad, she can tell that much even with the haze of alcohol coursing through her, and she’s sure if she looked up he’d have a little frown on his mouth, that his brow would be furrowed. She pulls back to look up and isn’t surprised. 

“Nah. We weren’t,” she agrees, just as soft, before resting her head back on his chest.

“Merry Christmas, princess,” he says after a long while. He presses his lips to her hair, moving his arms so they fall down her shoulders to encase her back. She wraps hers around his waist, so they’re flush against each other, hugging.

“Merry Christmas, Bell.”

***

The next morning confirms that their friends won’t be arriving any time soon. It’s still snowing, both at the cabin and in the city, so the flights that Octavia, Lincoln, Raven, Wells and Jasper were going to take back home aren’t running for at least a day. Monty and Miller are also delayed, because after the proposal they decided to visit Monty’s family on the way to the cabin, to share the good news in person (although Bellamy has told Clarke that Monty’s parents already knew, seeing that Miller asked them for permission. She screamed when she found that one out).

So it appears that none of their friends would be arriving until the twenty eighth, which would be much more distressing news a few days ago than it is now. Now, Clarke mostly feels sad on Bellamy’s behalf, because she knows he’s missing Octavia during the holiday season, and she’s also feeling a little sorry for herself because she wants to squeeze both Monty and Miller as soon as they arrive, and now she has to wait two extra days. Bellamy doesn’t seem upset though, only saying “Want to go on a drive? There’s a lake about two hours out, and I was thinking of heading up there. It might be nice to get out of town for the day, seeing as nobody’s going to be coming.” when Clarke slumps down onto the couch next to him.

“Sure,” Clarke responds, and then they’re on the road.

He drives, so they can sit in the bed of his truck to admire the view, but she’s able to hook her phone up, mocking him with his _my car, my music_ mantra as she blasts Disney soundtracks the entire time. Bellamy pretends to be annoyed about it, but she can see the smile from the corner of her eye when she belts out _I’ll Make a Man Out of You._

The lake itself is gorgeous once they arrive, just past twelve, reminding Clarke of the scenery she’d been finishing up in her sketch book for the past few days - appearing untouched by humans just as the forrest had. They walk around the edge for a while, going at a languid pace and enjoying how the water glistens in the light of the sun, the vibrant green of the plant life circuiting it. They come across a few couples looking to be on a romantic getaway, and families that are enjoying a picnic, and it’s only twenty minutes into their walk that one of them insists on taking their photo in from of such a serene backdrop. It’s hard to say no, so they accept with a smile, and the photo of the pair looking very much like a couple plays in Clarke’s mind for the rest of the walk.

Returning to the truck a little while later, once Clarke’s enjoyed the view close up, Bellamy reaches into the backseat to grab some pillows and blankets they brought from the cabin, while Clarke finds the lunch they bought on the way. They set up on the bed of the truck, and he reads as she sketches, just as they have been doing on the couch at the cabin. But the cold winter air pulses onto her skin, and even with all the layers warming her up she still finds herself migrating towards Bellamy’s body heat. She huddles in closer, and he squeezes her hand before going back to his book, the gesture without a second thought from him but leaving her skin tingling and hot.

She vaguely gets that time is passing, because that’s how life works, but it isn’t until Bellamy actually finishes his book, a long winded sigh leaving his mouth before he mutters about stupid cliffhangers, that she realises how long they’ve been there.  


“Holy shit,” she laughs, showing Bellamy the time on her phone. It’s half four; they’ve been sitting in silence for close to four hours and she hadn’t even noticed. “We should probably head back.”

He agrees easily, and they spend the returning stretch with Bellamy explaining the book he’s just finished (after she confirms for the sixth time that she doesn’t mind hearing about it). It’s the kind of book she enjoys hearing about from him, because they way he explains it is interesting, and the fact that he goes on rants for ten minutes doesn’t hurt either, but she probably wouldn’t read it herself.

Clarke convinces Bellamy to pull into the local bar when they arrive back in town, just past six thirty and already dark, because she can’t be bothered attempting to make dinner and feels bad making Bellamy cook again (they both agreed that the leftover Christmas dinner would go to Octavia, and Clarke’s only regretting it a little bit). It’s about as busy as it was the first night she came in, however this time it’s lacking all of her friend. They grab a booth that’s free and both order a burger with fries and a beer.

Which sounds like a good idea until one beer turns into two, and then Clarke convinces Bellamy that she’ll beat him in pool, and when she _does_ beat him decides that his punishment is shots, and she’s seriously kind of worried about how much they’re drinking this holiday, but pushes it to the back of her mind when she downs her own.

Anya requests their keys by the next round, which is fair, and when she saunters off in the other direction Bellamy pulls Clarke in to whisper to her.  


“That’s the girl you told that we fucked,” he hisses, mouth wet and right against her ear.

Clarke bursts into a fit of giggles, bracing herself on Bellamy’s arms as she calms down.  “Fuck, I didn’t even remember that,” she finally gets out, and then “We should probably go home before I do anything embarrassing like that again.”

She’s not sure whether the walk home this time is easier than last, because on one hand she’s definitely not as drunk as she was that first night, but on the other hand Bellamy is also tipsy, and he gets easily distracted when nobody’s there to put their foot down (Clarke just gets distracted along with him, so they make a terrible drunk team).

“We should make a fort!” Clarke declares as soon as they enter the cabin, wiggling her body to detach any of the snow left on her jacket. It falls to the floorboards, and Clarke hopes she remembers it’s there and doesn’t slip on the puddle it’ll melt into. She’s still tipsy and warm despite the walk and cold weather, and really doesn’t want to head to bed just yet. It’s past nine, so she definitely could, but she’s having too much fun and the idea of a fort is really compelling.

“Fuck yeah!” Bellamy agrees, because just as they get distracted when they’re drunk, they also get really aggressively into shit (which is apparently funny to all their friends because they’ll often get distracted _while_ trying to aggressively be into other stuff, and end up falling asleep before finishing any of their intended plans). But this time she’s determined, because she’s not trying to TP Finn’s apartment and instead crying when she finds a cat. This time she’s doing this _with Bellamy_ and she’s not aggressively into building a fort, she’s _really fucking aggressively into it._

She pulls out rows of sheets and blankets in the linen closet while Bellamy runs upstairs to collect all the pillows in the cabin, and once he returns they have all the materials to build a really cool fort. She’s not really sure how they manage it, because although they aren’t sloppy drunk they definitely don’t have the best hand-to-eye coordination, but they’re able to make themselves a pretty fucking cool fort. They use both of the couches as barriers - they’re perpendicular to each other and when they push them close enough the gap is considered the entrance - and cover the area with sheets, hanging them from the backs of the couch and letting them rise over two of the tall floor lamps and fall against the wall on one side and unceremoniously drop in the middle of the room on the other. 

It’s probably the same area as a king sized bed in the end, and once they’ve filled it up with blankets and pillows it’s inviting as hell. She’s very proud. She kind of wants to name it.

“This was a really good idea,” she says as she crawls in, glancing over her shoulder to make sure Bellamy’s following. He is of course, looking very excited and amused as he shuffles with her laptop in hand inside the fort they’ve created. She thinks she’ll call it Bob. 

She finds something trashy on Netflix to watch, and settles her laptop onto the couch they aren’t leaning against. There’re blankets piled above them, pillows stacked around them and sheets hovering over their bodies such that it feels like their own little bubble. As they pass the bottle of wine left unfinished from last night she tunes out from the movie, thinking about how the whole cabin has felt like their own personal bubble. She wonders whether it’ll pop, if their friends will be the cause or just their sometimes self-destructive selves. She’s pulled out of her thoughts when Bellamy half yells “Do girls actually like that? I never know if it’s cute or awkward,” pointing an accusing finger at her laptop.  


“What?” She asks, snapping her gaze to his.

He looks over to her, eyes dropping to her lips for the smallest of moments returning to her eyes.

“When people say ‘can I kiss you?’. Cute or awkward?”

“Cute,” she says, settling the bottle of wine down beside her. She turns herself to face him more, a hand rising to rest on his chest and moving up to his hair after a few moments. “Just…imagine we’re, you know, flirting and stuff,” she cards her hand through the hair at the nape of his neck, “and I move up so our lips are close together, almost touching but not quite.” She follows her own words, leaning up so she’s just a breath away from him. “And then I ask, ‘can I kiss you?’” Her voice is low and sultry, the words spoken almost against his lips, and when he leans forward to capture hers, she pulls back while he chases them. He sighs as she leans back against the couch, an obvious dismissal, but doesn’t offer any words. “You don’t have to do it all the time,” she blurts out, because there’s nothing else she can think of to say and the silence feels too thick. “But it’s not really awkward unless you make it awkward.” She shrugs, and he nods, and they continue watching the film.

She wishes she could say she was trying to be a flirt or a tease, leading him on before making it clear he couldn’t have her, asserting the power she knows she could have if she desired. But it’s not that. It’s - she’s _scared,_ honestly, because now she’s wondering whether it’ll be kissing that destroys the bubble, makes everything real, and eventually leads to the end of everything they seemed to have built in the last few days ( _trust_ echoes in her brain, but the word somehow doesn’t feel enough). 

And what scares her even more is that she _wants_ to kiss him. She can’t blame it on the fact that she’s drunk, because she’s not, or the fact that her friends just got engaged while she’s (not tragically) still single, because she was leaning in before Bellamy’s phone went off, or even that everything going on with her family is making her search for an outlet, because she hasn’t had a single thought of her mother all day.

So she accepts that she wants to kiss him because he’s _Bellamy,_ and it’s only really fear holding her back.

“Hey, Bell,” she says softly, and he hums in return. “You should ask me.”

He turns back to her, gaze flitting over her face and searching her eyes. “Can I kiss you?”

She moves her hand back to his chest and nods, and they lean in at the same time. His lips are warm and a little chapped against hers, but they slide nonetheless, sucking on her bottom lip as she moves both her hands to cradle his face. She takes the lead, because she can feel his hesitance, and angles him so she can deepen the kiss. As soon as her tongue traces his lips he opens for her, and his tongue is so familiar in the way it moves against her own.

His hands move to her hips, guiding her as she scrambles onto his lap. They spend a while just kissing, exploring each other’s mouths after their time apart, and it’s only when Clarke moans that things get more heated. His grip on her tightens and his lips start to move more hungrily against hers, and then she starts grinding onto his lap and eliciting his own moan. 

It’s fast after that, as if a dam has been broken and they’re both rushing to touch all the skin they can reach, feel every bit of warmth the other has to offer. Bellamy plays with the hem of her sweater before lifting it up and off, and then does the same to her long sleeved top. Her bra is plain and black, and her hand goes around her back to shed that as well.  


“Fuck, Clarke,” he says, his voice rough and deep. “I’ve missed these.” He trails his fingers up her sides, moving to caress her breasts and feel the weight of them in his hands. 

“It’s only been three months,” she breathes out, hands going to tug his own top off. He lets her, and as soon as it’s off his lips descend onto her nipple, his tongue swirling a pattern he knows she loves. Her hands move to his shoulders, finding purchase there as she grinds down onto him again, and she can feel arousal build at her cunt, and knows she’ll need more very quickly. 

Bellamy seems to agree, because his mouth trails back up from her breasts to capture her lips, and his hands move to unbutton her jeans.

“What do you want, baby?” He asks between feverish kisses, the pet name she’d hate hearing from anyone else’s lips leaving her shiver in its wake. His fingers dip into her panties, and she keens as soon as they find her clit, breaking her mouth from his so she can suck in a breath. 

“You,” she says, voice breathy. “Forget the teasing, I just want to feel you, okay?”

“Okay,” he says, lips crashing back to hers in a heated kiss.

He pushes her slowly off his lap, and guides her to the floor with his hands, peppering kisses along her skin with the newly exposed flesh as he pulls off her underwear and jeans. He comes back up to look her in the eyes and she reaches up to pull him into a deep kiss, hot and needy and wet, just like she remembers. 

He works her enough with his fingers on her clit and stroking her folds to get her wet, and it’s not until she wraps her legs around his waist and pulls him down hard, pushing herself up to grind onto him that he breaks the kiss with a laugh.  


“Eager, princess.”  


“Shut up and strip,” she says, eliciting another chuckle.  


He tugs down his jeans and underwear, throwing them somewhere Clarke can’t register with the sight of him, thick and large and so fucking ready for her. She grabs his cock, and it twitches in her hands, leaving Clarke with a smug grin with Bellamy’s groan.  


She strokes him a few times, leaning up on one hand to whisper in his ear “How do you want me?”

He shivers, and Clarke beings trailing kisses up and down his neck until he pushes her away with a hand on her arm. She stills her hand on him. “I want to see you,” he tells her, and she can see that behind the wall of lust he’s nervous about his request. Because she knows him, and she knows that when he wants that extra connection he’ll want to be hovering above her as he thrusts into her writhing body, or flush against her as she rides him in his lap.

She nods, and leans him for a soft, reassuring kiss. Well it’s soft for all of two seconds, and then their tongues are involved again and she begins stroking him again with more pressure and speed, and he’s pressing her down into the sea of blankets below. 

“Fuck,” he curses against her lips, pulling away. “I don’t have a condom.”  


“Shit, neither do I.” She worries her lip, her thumb on his cock flicking the tip so he shudders. “I’m clean and on the pill,” she offers. They haven’t slept together without a condom ever before, and it feels like a new level of trust.

“I’m clean as well. Lexa?” He asks.  


“Been tested since. Echo?”

“We never slept together,” he tells her, dipping back down so his mouth attaches to her neck, nipping and sucking and laving while a hand flicks over her nipple.

“I thought I said no teasing,” she whines, rubbing her thighs together to gather some friction.

“Sorry, got distracted,” he laughs, hand replacing hers on his length as he guides it to her folds. He gathers up the wetness on the tip of his cock before pushing in, her legs wrapping around him to urge him in further.  He swears when he reaches the hilt, and Clarke’s eyes shut, the way he fills her up so familiar and yet never feeling enough. He pulls back, and thrusts into her again, and they begin a rhythm together like they always do.

His mouth moves back to hers as he braces himself over her, and Clarke’s arms move to his back, her nails grazing his skin the way she knows he likes, but also keeping him close (the way she knows he wants). They move together, Bellamy urged on in his speed and force and angle of thrusts by the way Clarke keens and the way words fall from her mouth.  


“Talk to me, baby,” he tells her, mouthing against her nipple and grazing his teeth against it. She remembers this too, how much he loves having her talk herself to a climax, as he follows her words with his lips. She voices her thoughts, telling him how good he feels and how much he fills her up, her voice breathy and cut off with particularly good thrusts, her back arching up with them. She tells him where she wants his fingers and his mouth, how hard she wants him to bite down, and moans when he listens, receptive as always.

“Fuck, Bell,” she cries, writhing beneath him. “I’m so clo-se,” she chokes out, desperate for the coil that’s tight low in her belly to finally snap so the pleasure can roll through her.

He pulls back, moving the hand circling her nipple down her stomach and to her clit, working her over the edge with his expert fingers and cock. She comes with a broken moan, cut off only when Bellamy surges down to swallow it, and he draws it out of her, the pulse of release hot as it flushes her and curls her toes.

When she comes down from the high she presses her legs around him more tightly, breaking the kiss to whisper against his lips. “Come for me, baby.” 

He stills, buried deep, his forehead falling onto her shoulder and a groan pressed onto her skin as he pulses inside her, no barrier between them. It takes a while until he comes to his senses, but when he does he pulls out, falling beside her before snaking an arm around her.

She moves willingly to him, her head laying on him chest and pressing a kiss to his glistening skin as they catch their breaths. She receives a kiss to her hair in return, and can feel Bellamy move it so it will fall over one shoulder before he begins to rub soft patterns into her bare back.  


“We’ll talk about it in in the morning,” he says, and she falls asleep with him underneath her, only a blanket to cover their naked forms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woweeee what a way to end. I hope you enjoyed the smut. I tried to keep in the same style of writing although this sex scene was a lot more intimate than the others - hopefully that translated!!  
> What did you think of Miller/Clarke interactions, cause honestly I'm a massive fan of their friendship and that'll defs translate later on (there're two bits which will have you loving Miller so hard and I'm half crying think about how beautiful he is, which defs means it's time to go to sleep).  
> I hope you guys are enjoying this story, it's actually been very fun to write and I really like teasing you about their past!! Hopefully what I have planned doesn't disappoint haha (you'll be finding out about 'the split' next chapter, as well as how B/C deal with the morning after in present time).  
> Comments/kudos are always my fave! You guys are great thank you very much for the lovely support :)


	4. 27.12/28.12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: *throws smut at you* enjoy  
> Real notes: the flashback for this chapter is like double the length of the others whoooops, and is set out as like, six moments to (hopefully) show how their relationship progresses (and how it ends). I found this chapter difficult to write - there were two very different directions I was thinking of heading in - but I'm hoping you guys enjoy this one. Once again I accidentally wrote too much (over 10K words this time ahhh) but oh well you can deal. Also the whole gang is in this chapter - honeymoon (honeymoon???) is over for bellarke.  
> There are only two more after this for present time, and you can expect some angst in the next one!!  
> Comments/kudos are so very lovely, and thanks to everyone reading this! Hope you enjoy :)

_July through September, 2014._

_“What?” Clarke groans as she’s repeatedly kicked in the calf. She blinks sleep away from her eyes and rolls over, finding Raven glaring and holding out Clarke’s phone.  
_

_“Eggplant Emoji is calling you,” she tells her, dropping the phone so it lands on Clarke’s chest._

_Clarke bites back a smile before answering. He’s actually upgraded from eggplant emoji to eggplant emoji, praising hands emoji and party popper emoji. (He obviously thinks very highly of himself. Not that he’s wrong.)_

_“You’re calling early.” She answers with._

_“Mmm, what can I say? I missed you.”  
_

_“Missed me, huh?” Clarke grins, her voice smug._

_“It sounded a lot better than saying what I actually missed.”_

_“You’re such an asshole,” she laughs. She stretches, her back cracking and the tension rolling out of her body in waves, causing a moan to part her lips.  
_

_“Fuck. You’re killing me here, Clarke.”_

_“I can come over and help you out,” she offers._

_“All I’m asking.” He’s smiling. After two weeks of getting to know each other a little better, she can already tell how it sounds around his words._

_“Be there in twenty,” she says, ending the call._

_“You’re spending an awful lot of time with Eggplant Emoji,” Raven comments.  
_

_Clarke shrugs, sitting up on the bed and searching the floor for her pants. She finds them and tugs them on before gathering her stuff up._

_“You’re still being careful, right?”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_Raven leans up on her elbows. “You’re hanging out after sex. That’s more than a booty call. Just make sure you’re on the same page.”  
_

_“Will do, babe,” Clarke smiles with a wink. “Love you!”_

_“Shut the fuck up,” Raven groans, throwing a pillow as Clarke closes the bedroom door._

_It’s changed since that first day of hanging out. She still sees him about twice a week, but now they no longer just fuck, they also talk and laugh and linger after sex. She hasn’t been reaching for her clothes as soon as the sweat glistening her body dries, and he no longer tugs on his jeans after disposing of the condom. They lie in bed and talk about their days or shit-talk TV shows and movies. She’s started mentioning her new job and talking about her friends, and he tells her about his students and sister and complains about his principal Fucking Diana._

_They’re more like friends with benefits now, which. It’s odd, because they’ve gone about the whole arrangement the wrong way - fucking first and becoming friends later, but it’s cool. She likes him and they get along well. Honestly, she’d invite him to hang out with her friends if they weren’t sleeping together. But they are, which is awesome, really, but it limits where they can take the relationship. Inviting him to hang out with friends feels like it’s verging on couples territory, which isn’t what they are. And she thinks about Raven’s words, but it’s like they don’t really need to talk about it. They’ve accepted that they’re becoming friends as well as sleeping together - they’re on the same page._

_Bellamy opens his apartment door with a grin, baring teeth she knows he’ll soon put to use, and she steps in to kiss him. It’s more heated than she initially intended, and she only breaks away when she hears someone - not Bellamy - groan._

_“Hey, Miller!” She calls out to the man lying on the couch.  
_

_He groans again, an arm flinging up to cover his eyes.  
_

_“I’m hungover as fuck, so please keep it down,” he requests._

_Clarke laughs, but it turns into a squeak as Bellamy pinches her ass. She turns around to glare at his smug face._

_“Fuck. Keep it in the bedroom, please!” Miller whines._

_She walks backwards to Bellamy’s bedroom, the man following with a salacious grin, and slowly pulls up her top. She’s not wearing a bra, and she can hear the moment he realises - a barely contained groan. Before_ _she pulls it off completely he’s upon her, tugging at the garment and connecting their lips, heated and messy as Clarke tries to contain a laugh._

_She opens the door behind her, and he pushes her into the room and then onto his bed._

_“Why don’t you let me know what you were actually missing,” she teases, “seeing as it wasn’t me.”_

_“Oh, princess. I will,” he promises, his mouth descending and beginning its familiar assault on her neck. Princess is a new one, as is baby and gorgeous, and - it feels like it should be too intimate, but it honestly just gets Clarke even hotter than he already makes her._

_He does tell her exactly what he was missing, and it’s then that they both realise just how much Clarke is into dirty talk. Speaking while fucking isn’t anything new for them, but it’s been nothing more than their names and encouragement so far. It’s different this time; more - Bellamy telling her how he wants to fuck her mouth and how much he loves leaving marks on her ivory skin and how he wants to feel her come as she rides his face. It’s fucking amazing._ _When she adds in her own voice - telling him exactly what she wants and how she likes it, praising his deft fingers and tongue and cock - he goes even crazier, continuing his efforts with further enthusiasm._

_After, when Clarke’s feeling thoroughly worked and flushed, Bellamy chuckles._

_“What?” She breathes out, moving so her chin is resting on his chest._

_“I just have a feeling we’re going to be a lot more vocal from now on. I feel sort of sorry for Miller.”  
_

_Clarke grins, hitching up her body so she’s laying half on top of him._

_“That’s awfully presumptuous of you,” she teases, although they both know it’s not._

_There’s no way she’s going to stop this arrangement. There’s no way either of them are._

_***_

_“You like it when I call you princess,” Bellamy comments, smug._

_Clarke bites his shoulder and moves so she’s lying on top of him. Her body is still coming down from her last high, but Bellamy is like an addiction. She can’t get enough._

_“Uh-huh,” she says, unashamed. She attaches her lips to his earlobe, sucking it until he shivers. When she pulls away his eyes are already darker. She begins tracing his jaw with her finger lightly. “And what should I call you? Daddy?” She suggests, grinning teasingly._

_He laughs, his chest rumbling and causing her to move with it. “I’m not one for the daddy kink, actually.”  
_

_“Mmm, me neither,” she says, kissing the corner of his mouth. “What about baby?” He shivers, and she knows she has him. “Oh, you like baby, do you?” She asks, kissing the dimple on his chin that she loves._

_“I like calling you baby.”_

_“Hmm.” She traces his jaw again. “I think you like me calling you baby as well.” She presses her lips against his, and he sucks in a breath, a hand moving to the back of her head to keep her in place._

_“I like it when you say my name, too.” He tells her when they break apart. His voice is low and hoarse, the words confessed against her lips._

_“Bellamy,” she whispers, smiling._

_“Or you can call me Bell.”  
_

_“I like Bell.” She kisses him again. “I can do that.” Bellamy, Bell and baby. Easy. She grinds down onto his cock, and can feel it harden._

_He growls and sits up, bringing her with him so they’re flush against each other. He catches her lips, kneading her ass with his hands, and soon she’s sinking down onto his cock again. She rides him in his lap, enjoying the way his hands tense on her body every time she calls out the names he gets off to, and comes hard when his teeth graze her collarbone and his thumb presses into her clit._

_“I want pizza,” Clarke sighs, after, when she’s sprawled across his bed and body lazily._

_“So order pizza.”  
_

_“Here?” She asks, hesitant._

_“Yeah. Like hell you’re getting pizza without me.”_

_She glances to him, but his eyes are closed. Still, he looks relaxed and genuine, so she takes it that he really doesn’t mind, and fishes for her phone to order some pizza._

_They eat it in bed, Bellamy setting up his laptop so they can watch something together, and it’s honestly a great way to spend a Saturday. He gets her off in the shower later, and she only leaves his apartment when it’s beginning to get dark. Her smile feels a little less smug than previous times._

_***_

_She doesn’t realise that she likes Bellamy - as more than a booty call and more than a friend - until the beginning of August._

_She’s having a crappy day at work - the first bad one since beginning the new job, and her first thought after clocking off is that she wants to see Bellamy. It’s not that weird, because an orgasm sounds fucking great right now, but it’s more than that. She doesn’t just want to fuck him, she wants to see him.  
_

_She wants to see him so much that she actually forgets to text him. She only realises it once she’s already knocking on his apartment door and it’s too late to make an escape. He looks shocked when he sees her, and when he frowns she’s about to apologise and march straight back to apartment and remain there for the rest of her life, because of course he doesn’t want her just showing up without warning._

_But he surprises Clarke by grabbing her arm and pulling her into the apartment._

_“What’s wrong?” He asks, and she realises that his frown isn’t upon seeing her, it’s upon seeing her upset. It’s because he’s concerned._

_“Bad day,” she sighs, and he kisses her on the forehead._

_“Come on,” he says, taking her hand and leading her into the apartment. “Go sit down on the couch. Miller’s out, so we have the place to ourselves.” He brings her over a bowl of rice and curry, and they watch something on HGTV._

_“Sorry for coming around unannounced,” she says once they’ve finished the food. He pulls her into his chest and begins stroking her arm up and down, soothing._

_“It’s okay. Do you feel better?”_

_“Yeah,” she sighs, snuggling into him further. “I do now.”_

_They do have sex later on, and the theme of the day seems to be ‘how many times can Bellamy make Clarke come?’.And it’s fine - she can play it off like she just wants sex, but really, she wants comfort. She wants comfort from her friend slash booty call, and it scares her.  
_

_She’s putting herself into a position she swore to herself she wouldn’t after Finn - a position to get hurt. They kept it casual for three months, yet in a matter of three weeks she’s managed to actually_ like _him. Three weeks of talking and laughing and teasing and eating in bed and watching crappy shows, and she feels like her heart is close to bursting. She thinks back to Wells’ words at the beginning of it all:_ I know you can fall for someone before you’ve even realised you’re doing it. _And that’s exactly what she’s done._

_Fucking idiot._

_***  
She doesn’t realise that Bellamy likes her - as more than a booty call and more than a friend - until the middle of August. _

_She wakes in the middle of the night, a hand instinctively searching for another body, to find that Bellamy isn’t in bed. It’s still dark, the alarm clock on his bedside table telling Clarke it’s just past three. She gets out of bed, convincing herself that she just wants a glass of water even though she knows she really wants Bellamy, and hears quiet talking coming from the living room._

_Bellamy’s door is ajar, and she listens as the voices drift over to her._

_“Is Clarke over?” Miller asks. He must’ve just gotten home from the bar._

_“Yeah.”  
_

_“Fourth time you’ve seen her this week,” he comments._

_“Yeah, I know,” Bellamy sighs. “I like her. A lot.”  
_

_“She’s a cool chick.” It feels like a victory - she’s never sure if Miller actually likes her. “She seems good for you.”  
_

_“Yeah,” Bellamy chuckles. “I think so, too.”  
_

_Clarke smiles and shuffles back to bed, not wanting to intrude any further. Bellamy returns a few minutes later, sliding in next to her. Clarke turns to face him, tucking her head underneath his chin and kissing his chest. He wraps his arms around her and she feels safe, surrounded by Bellamy Blake. Bellamy Blake who likes her. A lot, apparently._

_“Go back to sleep,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to her hair._

_She drifts off with a smile on her face._

_***_

_“Tell me something you’ve never told anyone before,” Bellamy requests, his voice a hoarse whisper and his lips moving against her shoulder._

_They’ve been like this for the past hour or so - sleepy and drunk and post-coital, not ready to fall asleep but half way there anyway. It’s a combination that makes for being particularly sappy, but Clarke doesn’t mind. She likes this Bellamy; he’s vulnerable and sweet, holding onto Clarke like she’s something precious._

_They haven’t spoken about what they are yet, but she knows they’re on the same page. She’s still scared - there’s a part of her that always will be - but he makes her feel less so. He makes her feel like falling for him won’t end in heartache, like he’ll be there to catch her when she does. And she doesn’t need the words - not just yet, at least - because he’s holding her like he could love her, asking her questions like he wants to protect her, and kissing her like he never wants to stop. It’s enough for now._

_“Hmmm,” she hums, pondering his words as her hand cards through his hair. “I can only think of one thing, but it’s not very happy.”  
_

_“You can tell me.” He presses a kiss to her neck. “If you want.”_

_“When I was young, fourteen or so, I caught my mum having an affair.” Her words are soft and slow, her eyes closed and her thoughts hazy. She’s encouraged by his warmth by her side, his arm wrapped around her and his breath hot on her skin. “I was home early from a friend’s house, I think, and when I went into the living room I found her kissing someone. Not a friendly kiss. It was a passionate one. One that you would have before making love. One that was definitely not the first.” She pauses, continues running her fingers through Bellamy’s curls. She can feel his gaze on her, and she sighs when he kisses her shoulder again. “I left before either of them saw me, and I didn’t see who the man was, but I think it may’ve been Marcus - my mum’s new husband. A few months later my parents told me they were getting a divorce. I never told my dad what had happened, never told a single friend, but I still thought it was my fault. I don’t think Mum even knows that I saw. I think that you’re the first.”_

_They’re silent for a while, Bellamy taking in her words. His fingers have started tracing the outline of her breasts and her abdomen. He leans up on his elbows to capture her lips, soft and sweet.  
_

_“I’m sorry,” he offers.  
_

_Clarke smiles at him as he settles back down, his lips back on her shoulder._

_“Sometimes I think I’m the reason my mum’s dead.” He mumbles after a few minutes, the words said against her skin. Her hand pauses its movements for a moment and she feels her heart stop. “Not just think - I know.” He nuzzles into her shoulder and Clarke swallows, thick, before continuing to move her fingers. “She asked me to pick her up from work because the car was making funny noises, but I was at a party. I was drunk and all my friends were too and I - I couldn’t pick her up. She got into an accident. It wasn’t even her car - someone ran a red light and smashed into her. But if I picked her up she wouldn’t’ve been there. If I wasn’t off getting drunk with my friends, she wouldn’t have-” He shudders, voice sad and helpless, the distinct Bellamy about it lost as he admits what she can only imagine is one of his most painful memories._

_“Bell,” she whispers. Her hand moves from his hair to cup his face, and her thumb strokes his cheek. “Look at me.” He does, his eyes a mixture of alcohol and sleep and unshed tears. “You aren’t the reason that you’re mother’s dead. It’s not your fault.” He glances away but Clarke keeps a firm hold of him. “Hey. Bellamy, I’m serious. It’s not your fault.”  
_

_She shuffles down the bed until her head is in line with his.  
_

_“It’s not your fault.” She promises. “It’s not your fault.”_

_He nods, resting his forehead in the crook of her neck, and she holds him close._

_It’s been six weeks since she even realised she liked him, and now she’s wondering if that’s a strong enough word._ Perhaps loves is a more appropriate one _, she thinks, Wells’ words ringing in her ears once again._

_***_

_She hears the music as soon as the elevator doors open. It’s blaring through the hallway, only getting louder the closer she gets to Bellamy’s apartment. She knows he’s hosting a party - he’d asked Clarke to come but she was busy. She was meant to be busy._

_She’s not supposed to be here. She’s supposed to be at her mother’s house, having dinner together like Abby had promised. But apparently even the second anniversary of Clarke’s father’s death wasn’t enough for her mother to keep her word._

_So after wallowing in her bedroom for a few hours with half a bottle of wine, she decided that while her mum couldn’t comfort her, someone else could. Which is why she’s stepping into Bellamy’s apartment, even though she knows he’s busy. She’s pretty sure her eyes still have black smudges around them and are rimmed red from tears; her hair’s in a messy bun and her sweater is paint-covered and enveloping her frame, but she doesn’t care about her appearance. She just wants to find Bellamy._

_She finds Miller first. A very drunk Miller, who comes barrelling up to Clarke to embrace her._

_“Hey!” He shouts over the music. The place is close to packed, and Clarke wonders how the boys know all these people. “Bellamy said you weren’t coming!”  
_

_“I wasn’t mean to be,” Clarke says, steadying Miller as he sways. He apparently doesn’t take in her dishevelled appearance, because he just grins._

_“I’m glad you came!”  
_

_Clarke laughs. Drunk Miller is quite different from a sober one._

_“Do you know where Bellamy is?” She asks. She can’t see him in the throng of people dancing and chatting. She doesn’t recognise any of them._

_“I think he’s in the kitchen,” he tells Clarke. “I’ll take you.” He pushes through the crowd of people and Clarke smiles, feeling happy despite the day’s events that Miller likes her. The smile falls when she sees Bellamy._

_He is in the kitchen. Standing between a pair of legs perched on the counter, kissing the girl they’re attached to. Her hands are carding through his hair and his are stroking down her back to squeeze her ass. Clarke’s pretty sure she was in this position three days ago._

_She stares, her eyes unable to leave even as they start prickling with more tears. Her stomach twists and drops, her heart stutters before doubling its pace. It feels like one of those movie moments - music fading and vision tunnelling. All she can focus on is Bellamy’s mouth and hands - his mouth and hands that are attached to someone other than her._

_The next thing she knows is that Miller is dragging her out of the doorway by her arm, Clarke following without any resistance. Then they’re in a bedroom, one that isn’t Bellamy’s._

_“Clarke,” Miller says, the sound distant as he squeezes both her arms. “Clarke!” He repeats, louder.  
_

_“Yeah? Yeah.” She shakes her head out of the dazed state, gaze snapping to Miller. He looks drunk. Drunk but sorry. And Clarke wants to laugh because he’s sorry his roommate is hooking up with some other chick, rather than the fact that her dad is dead and never coming back._

_“I’m sorry. Fuck - he likes you, I know he likes you.” His words are slurred but genuine and she feels a surge of fondness for him. He never had to be nice to Clarke - she was just one of his friends’ random fucks that apparently turned into something more. But still, here he is, making sure she’s okay._

_“Apparently not enough,” she breathes out. She offers a smile while wiping her eyes of unshed tears. “Can you - can you take me to his room? I just want to grab some of my stuff that’s in there.”_

_Miller nods, taking her hand and leading Clarke inconspicuously to the bedroom she’s so familiar with. He leans against the door incase anyone tries to come through (or maybe just so he doesn’t fall), and Clarke searches Bellamy’s room for her things. She finds the book she’d left on his bedside table, a pair of sunglasses she hadn’t realised were here, some lace underwear she loves and one of her favourite tees. There’s probably more, but nothing she can think to care about. At least care about more than getting out of this apartment._

_She turns back and finds Miller still leaning, his eyes closed. He’s really drunk, and Clarke wonders whether he’ll remember this in the morning. She wonders whether she wants him to._

_She places a hand on his arm and he moves out of the way, following her to the front door._

_“Don’t mention that I was here, okay?”_

_“Clarke-”_

_“No, Miller, I’m serious. Just - please don’t say anything. I can’t - just don’t say anything.”_

_“Okay,” he sighs, pulling Clarke into a hug. She hopes he’ll keep his word. He’s Bellamy’s friend, Clarke knows that but. He’s also her friend, and she really needs for him to keep his word._

_She steps back and offers a tight smile before turning to leave. She feels dazed, the wine she’d been drinking earlier clouding her body as she walks back down the hallway. She waits for the elevator, and when it dings five people stumble out, heading for the party. She notices braids, dangerous yet delicate, and ducks her head before anyone can notice her, small and pathetic._

_And she doesn’t feel angry. With Finn it was burning rage coursing through her body and lighting her skin ablaze, but with Bellamy it’s an empty pit in her stomach and a hollow heart. She doesn’t know which is worse._

_Without really knowing where she’s heading she finds herself enveloped in a familiar pair of arms. Wells doesn’t ask what’s wrong, but Clarke thinks he understands that her tears are for more than just her father. She doesn’t tell him what happened, and he doesn’t push, just holds her close like Bellamy should’ve._

_His words once again ring in her ears. Those stupid words that go hand-in-hand with Raven’s. The warnings she didn’t listen to. And she still can’t feel angry with him - only herself - because there were no rules. They didn’t define who they were to each other. She didn’t tell him she’d put her heart in his hands, but she thought he knew. With every touch and look and kiss, she thought he knew. She thought she had his, too._

_But apparently not. She fell and he didn’t catch her._

_The next day she receives a text. Eggplant emoji, praising hands emoji and party popper emoji._

_B: Are you busy today? Can I come over?_

_She breathes out a harsh breath. She didn’t know what she was going to do until this point._

_C: I think we should stop sleeping together._

_She doesn’t get a response._

_\--- --- ---_

Clarke’s eyes flutter open, consciousness seeping back into her as she takes in her surroundings. Her memories slowly return as her eyes flit to the sheets above her, the blankets and pillows below, as she feels her bare skin pressed against another, her body relaxed in such a familiar way. _Bellamy_.

A soft moan escapes her lips when she feels the light touch of fingers on the smooth skin of her back, her hair tickling it. It’s swept across a shoulder, the warm and slightly damp pressure of lips trailing over the skin it leaves exposed.

She shivers as they travel further up, reaching her neck and landing on a point just behind her ear.

“Good morning,” Bellamy murmurs, his breath hot on Clarke’s neck. “I’ve missed waking up to you.” 

She hums in response, shuffling back to press against him further. His hand slides down her side, pushing the blanket covering them down and leaving her naked form exposed.

“Is this okay?” He asks, fingers trailing across her stomach and travelling towards her cunt.

She nods in assent, closing her eyes as he begins stroking her folds. He shuffles backwards, but before she can whine at the loss of his heat he’s pushing her onto her back and surrounding her from above. She leans up on her elbows to capture his lips, getting lost in the feel of his mouth moving with her own, his fingers trailing over her pussy.

He finally parts her folds, stroking along her wet arousal and swirling her clit as he breaks the kiss, head ducking down to move across her breasts instead. She lies back down, hands moving up to card though his dark curls as she focuses on the sparks of pleasure she’s receiving. She can already feel desire pool in her core, goosebumps erupting over the skin his tongue trails and wetness gathering at her pussy with his teasing fingers.

“Bell, please,” she whines when her hips buck and thighs press together, trying to gain some friction.

The smirk he offers when he pulls back is nothing but smug, but before she’s able to offer a snarky reply he leans down to kiss her again. It’s hungry and deep, lips moving quickly and tongues darting into each other’s mouths. He begins circling her clit, and when Clarke breaks away with a moan, Bellamy continues kissing along her jaw and down her neck.  


“I want to taste you,” he says, eliciting a shiver to roll through her body.

“I want to ride your face.” She moans, arching her back.  


“Fuck,” he mutters, tongue trailing against her breasts and teeth grazing her nipples. 

She pushes against his shoulders, prompting him to detach his mouth from her chest so they can change position.

He lies down, leaning up on his elbows with his head near the couch, and watches Clarke hungrily as she crawls above him. She presses kisses onto the already hot skin of his thighs, and when she’s level with his cock she takes it in her hand, stroking. Her thumb flicks over the head and Bellamy’s hips jerk upwards, a string of curses leaving his mouth. He’s already half hard, and she continues her efforts until he’s thick and throbbing in her hand. After one teasing lick to get a taste and hearing a groan that delights her, she keeps crawling upwards. She’s urged on by his hands on her ass, and she continues moving forward until she’s straddling his face, leaning against the couch for support. 

His tongue takes a long swipe against her and he moans, the vibrations against her clit sending pulses of pleasure down her spine.

“I’ve fucking missed tasting you,” he says. “You’re so fucking perfect.”  


Clarke closes her eyes, the words bouncing around in her mind while she rocks her hips against his mouth. He licks at her pussy, lapping up the wet arousal that has gathered as a hand moves to her hip to hold her down. She grinds against him, revelling in the moan it elicits, and moves her cunt until she finds the perfect position. She continues to move against him, heat pooling into her belly and sparks of pleasure rolling through her as he brings her closer to the edge. His nose bumps against her clit and she arches her back, the coil winding tighter and tighter. 

She glances behind her as she continues to grind, finding Bellamy’s thick length in his hand as he strokes it, up and down and up and down. Clarke can’t look away, the sight turning her on even more, and her hips buck out of rhythm as her nerve endings are set alight. His breath is harsh and hot against her exposed pussy, the sounds he moans when he flicks the head of his cock sending vibrations through her core. She watches him speed up, feels his tongue do the same inside her, and comes, hard. She cries out as it floods her, clenching the walls of her cunt and feeling a gush of wetness there. Her body trembles above him as he laps her juices up, soon moving to attaches his lips to her clit. He sucks to prolong the pleasure coursing her body and curling her toes until she pushes him away from her sensitive nerves and slumps against the couch. 

She’s careful not to crush her weight on top of him, and feels as he shift beneath her in her dazed state. The next thing she knows is that he’s surrounding her from behind, his cock pressed against her back.

“Can I fuck you?” He asks, lips against her neck.

Clarke nods eagerly, and Bellamy pulls her hips up, pushing her to lean forward on the couch.  


He enters her from behind, his hands tensing around her waist as he fills her up. He groans when he reaches the hilt, and pulls back slowly before thrusting in once again. He begins fucking into her, and she rocks against him, feeling hazy after her orgasm but wanting to get him there, too. 

She talks to him, urging him on with the encouragements she knows he loves, knows turn him on. He fucks her harder and faster until she can feel him lose control, lose his rhythm, and when he’s buried deep he comes. He pulses within her, trembles across her back, and says her name like a prayer - _Clarke, princess, baby, gorgeous_ \- until he slumps on top of her. 

Their breaths are ragged, his chest pushing her further into the couch as they come down from their highs. He pulls out and she can feel the mixture of their arousal slide out and down her thighs with it. An arm snakes around her middle and he pulls her to him, settles her back against his chest before laying them down on the bed of blankets. She’ll have to wash all of these before their friends arrive.

_Fuck._ When their friends arrive.

“We should talk about this,” Bellamy mumbles.

She hums in agreement, yet neither of them make any further effort to speak. She feels herself drift, her body relaxed and tired, and Bellamy’s eventually even breaths lull her to sleep.

***

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck,_ ” Bellamy swears, nudging Clarke’s shoulder, waking her.

“What?” She whines, pushing his insistent hand away and nuzzling her face back into the pillow.

“People are here.”

“What?” She mumbles into the fabric, her brain not taking his words in in her still sleepy state. 

_“People are here,”_ he repeats.  


“ _WHAT?”_ She exclaims, moving to sit and whipping her gaze to Bellamy. “How do you know? What the fuck?”

“Just fucking _listen_ ,” he hisses, a hand darting out to cover her mouth. 

Over their harsh breathing and her quickening heart beat, she hears it. Mumbling and a rattling of the door, someone opening it and shuffled footsteps moving into the entryway of the cabin. She looks back to Bellamy, eyes wide and worried, and pulls his hand away from her mouth. 

She doesn’t bother holding the blanket to cover her naked form, instead quickly scrambling to the pile of clothes by the end of the couch. She throws Bellamy’s jeans in his direction, and then his top, before finding her sweater and tugging it on, but there’s no time; the voices get louder, and she knows that whoever is here is going to find them quickly.  


“I wonder where they are,” she can hear Monty comment. Okay, Monty and Miller. It could definitely be worse. “I wonder whether we’ll find them both dead. Mutual homicide.” Clarke doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.  


“Maybe that’s why they haven’t answered their fucking phones,” Miller mutters. 

Clarke tugs on her jeans, ass up in the air and balancing on her shoulders, and hears Bellamy chuckle. 

“Not fucking funny,” she hisses, sending a dark look his way. 

“Oooh, a fort!” Monty exclaims, voice loud with just a sheet’s barrier between them. 

The sheet draped across the two couches, acting as a makeshift door, is pulled aside and Monty’s head pops in. Their positions could be worse, meaning they could be naked, but it’s still not great. The blankets and pillows around them are a mess, their locks have a definite ‘sex hair’ vibe to them, and she can see her own panties and bra from the corner of her eye. Plus they’re hanging out in a fort together at what she can only assume is a relatively early hour of the morning, and she’s pretty sure they’re both wearing similar expressions of guilt.

Monty gapes, eyes darting between the two of them, before Miller’s head pops through too.

“Oh, fucking hell,” he mutters, taking them in and looking extremely unimpressed. “Not again.” He sighs, as though he might be disappointed if he cared more, and then pulls Monty back from where he continues to stare.

Clarks releases a large breath, chancing a glance at Bellamy before crawling out of the small space. She walks into the kitchen, finding Monty and Miller leaning against the counter and offering them a small but genuine smile.

“Am I allowed to hug you?” She asks, and Monty cracks a bright grin. “Congratulations!” She squeals, grinning as she jumps forward to pull them into a hug. Monty hugs her back fiercely and she embraces Miller tightly until he does the same. “I’m so happy for you both.”  


“Yeah, me too,” Monty says, shy. She couldn’t bite back her grin even if she tried. 

Clarke laughs, smacking a kiss on each of their cheeks before pulling back.

“I’d offer you champagne but it’s only-” she looks at the clock on the wall “-ten thirty in the morning. How do you feel about coffee?”

“Good. I have good feelings for coffee,” Miller says, nodding his head. 

Clarke walks through the kitchen to flick on the kettle and make a pot. “Not that I’m not happy to see you two, because I am, but why exactly are you here? You said you wouldn’t be getting in until tomorrow.”

“Octavia texted and asked us to come down early. She thought you and Bellamy might need a break from each other,” Monty explains.

“Obviously she was wrong,” Miller adds, dry. Clarke can’t help but snort a laugh. She glances over her shoulder, finding Miller looking at her with his special expression of fond irritation, and Clarke grins again. 

“Congrats, man,” Bellamy says, walking into the kitchen a moment later. 

Miller turns to face him and they embrace, patting each other firmly on the back. Clarke looks away, focusing on pouring the boiling water into a coffee pot. She can hear Bellamy pull Monty into a hug as well, and she’s glad she’s not facing them, able to hide her fond smile. 

“Fuck. You’re engaged,” Bellamy laughs, tone a little disbelieving.

“Apparently,” Miller says. Clarke turns around, finding Miller gazing at Monty, soft like he always is with the boy. 

“So can I ask…” Monty trails off, glancing over his shoulder to catch Clarke’s eye. 

“He already knows about you two,” Miller comments, moving from the counter so he’s no longer facing away from Clarke. Monty does the same, and she sees how their fingers intertwine as they stand next to each other, easy and immediate.

“Of course he does,” Clarke sighs, massaging her temples. 

“I guessed it, if that helps,” Monty says, trying to keep his fiancé out of trouble. “And then Miller told me that you guys used to like, date or something.”  


“We never dated,” Bellamy responds quickly, a hand moving to rub the back of his neck. Nervous tick.

Clarke breathes out a laugh, unsure of whether or not she finds it funny. She thinks she does, but in the way you find ridiculous situations funny. Laugh instead of cry funny. Because they never dated. And he still broke her heart. And now she’s fucked him. Again. It’s funny.

“Right,” she says, breathing out another laugh. She feels all three pairs of eyes on her as she pours them coffee, imagines their incredulous expressions. “I’m going to go have a shower.” She settles their drinks on the counter and gestures for the boys to take them before sliding past Bellamy into the hallway.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” she hears Miller say as she’s walking to the stairway. Clarke can’t help but think he’s telling the wrong person.

She tugs off her sweater and jeans, leaving her naked and exposed, and turns on the shower. She lets the water heat up and the room fog with warm steam before stepping in. The water is hot, trickling into her hair and prickling her already flushed skin. It washes away the sweat that’s dried on her flesh, the scent, a mixture of Bellamy and sex, that has lingered from last night and this morning, and allows the familiar stretch to her muscles relax. 

There’s a knock on the bathroom door and Clarke lets her forehead fall against the glass wall of the shower.

“Come in,” she calls, and hears Bellamy’s footsteps walk into the room slowly. “You can come in.” She opens her eyes and glances at Bellamy through the glass. 

He holds her gaze while pulling off his clothes and waits for her to nod before joining her. It’s the kind without a door, so he just steps up to Clarke and into the stream of water. She closes her eyes again, wishing so much that she could say no to him. She doesn’t want to say no, but she wants to want that. She wants to protect her heart this time, because she feels all too familiar standing with him now. 

On the ledge, wondering what he’s thinking, and ready to fall. 

He cups her face and rests his forehead against hers, blocking the water from rolling down their faces.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he tells her, voice hoarse. “But we didn’t date, did we?” She shakes her head. “Why didn’t we date?”

“Bellamy,” she sighs. How can she explain it when she doesn’t know herself.

He kisses her, soft and slow, and the water starts streaming down her face again. It falls into her eyes and drips down her nose and mixes in with their lips and tongue. 

“We should talk,” he mumbles against her mouth.

“You’ve already said that.”  


“Because it’s true.”  


“We’ve never been good at these conversations. In fact I distinctly remember us never having one.”  


“ _Clarke,_ ” he sighs.

She swallows, thick, before resting her head in the crook of his neck. Despite what he says about Clarke being short, he’s only a few inches taller than her, and therefore the perfect height for this. 

“Okay,” she says. “We’ll talk, but later. Not when our newly engaged friends are in the kitchen. Not when we have to clean up before everyone gets here. Not when we’re in the shower, okay?”

He kisses her on the crown of her head. “Okay.”

***

When Clarke and Bellamy return to the kitchen, the boys are making breakfast, looking very domestic as Monty leans his head on Miller’s shoulder. Before she can make a teasing comment the door bell rings and she frowns.

“Are we expecting any more of you today?” Bellamy asks drily.

“Not that I’ve heard,” Monty says, checking his phone for any calls or texts.

Clarke goes to answer, finding Harper, Monroe and Maya at the door grinning cheekily.

“Girls' day!” They chorus, pushing into the cabin before Clarke can get in a word. 

“What?” Clarke asks.

“Why the fuck do you have a fort in here?” Monroe asks, making a face at Clarke as she walks into the kitchen. Clarke follows the three girls and they come to a halt, matching expressions of confusion as they take in the boys eating at the kitchen bench.

“Oh,” Harper says, surprised. “We thought that it was only you and Bellamy here. We were going to save you from him. No offence,” she adds to Bellamy. Miller snorts a laugh, shaking his head in amusement. 

“Right,” Clarke says, huffing a laugh. “Um, you guys remember each other, yeah? Miller, Monty, Harper, Monroe, Maya,” she says, pointing each of them out.

“Yeah,” Monty grins. “Jasper’s crush,” he says, nodding to Maya happily. He girl blushes, ducking her head to hide a smile. 

“Exactly,” Clarke smiles. “So, um, what?” She looks back to the girls.

“We’re picking you up to have a girls' day,” Harper explains. “We texted you about it and I assumed that your lack of response was agreement to come.”  


“Of course you did.”

“You still want to come, though, right?” Maya asks.

Clarke glances to Bellamy quickly, not sure how to respond. He nods infinitesimally, smiling, so she assumes that they’re fine.

“Yeah, of course,” she says, smiling at the girls. “I’ll just grab my stuff.” 

She quickly runs upstairs and pulls on some boots and a jacket before gathering her wallet and phone. When she heads back down Bellamy is waiting at the end of the stairs.

“Hey,” she says. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” he smiles. “Just wanted to make sure that you were.”  


“Yeah, I’m fine. Do you think you’d be able to, um, take this down,” she says, gesturing towards the fort. “And wash the quilt covers that our friends definitely don’t want to sleep on?”

He huffs a laugh, grinning wryly. “Will do.”  


“Thanks.” She worries her lip for a second before leaning up and placing a soft kiss onto his lips. “We’ll talk. Just later, okay?”

“Okay.”  


She walks back into the kitchen to find everyone talking easily. When the girls notice her presence they start filing out of the room and walking towards the front door, bidding the boys farewell. 

“Hey,” Clarke says, striding up to Monty and Miller. “This probably goes without saying, but don’t say anything about Bellamy and I to the others, okay?” 

“Of course, Clarke,” Monty says, offering a small smile. 

“Awesome. I guess I’ll be back later then. Congrats again, guys.” She pulls them into another quick hug before heading out of the cabin and walking to the car pulled up outside.  


“Girls' day!” Harper hollers once she slides into the backseat.

Clarke laughs, rolling her head along the headrest and watching the cabin as they drive off. 

***

She returns well past dark, a girls' day turning into a girls' night with cocktails and dinner at Maya’s place. Maya’s mother drives her home, and it feels very high school, but it’s nice. There’s part of Clarke that wishes her own mother would be willing to do these things, but she puts it down to alcohol allowing that kind of thinking.  


The day was nice, spent laughing and catching up - her friendship with the girls easy despite their time apart. She’s able to clear her mind, spending some time without Bellamy after the past six days of almost constant contact. They grab lunch and try on clothes and watch a film and get a pedicure; exactly what she needs after everything’s been feeling so intense.

The past days with Bellamy have been amazing, reminding Clarke exactly of what she didn’t need to know - that they were good together, or _are_ good together (if they put in the effort). But there’s part of her that thinks that this whole week has just been their own little bubble. It’s what she was worried about last night, and even in this single day, it feels like something has already changed. She doesn’t know whether to blame the sex or the interruption (not that she isn’t happy to see her friends; she’s ecstatic), but it has changed, and it scares her.

She stumbles up to the cabin, spending more time trying to open the door than she should, and finally pushes in and makes her way up to her bedroom.

“Raven?” She asks, squinting her eyes at the dark form on her bed. There’s no way she could be hallucinating this.

“Hey,” the girl mumbles sleepily, looking up to Clarke.

“Hey. What’re you doing here?” She starts pulling off clothes, stumbling slightly as her friend watches her with amused eyes. 

“Jasper and I were able to get a flight within an hour of each other so decided to make the drive down tonight.”  


“Why didn’t you text me?” Clarke frowns. 

“The boys said that you were out and I only got in an hour ago. Didn’t seem worth it.”  


“Huh. Fair enough. And why’re you in my bed?”

“There’s no way in hell I’m rooming with Jasper,” Raven mutters and Clarke snorts.  


“Also fair enough,” she says, pulling on some pyjamas. She slides into bed next to her friend so that they’re facing and sighs, sleepy.  


“Monty and Miller are engaged.”  


“I know,” Clarke smiles fondly, eyes drooping shut. She tries to open them again but they’re heavy from a mixture of alcohol and fatigue. 

“They’ve only been dating a year.”  


“I guess when you know you know.”

“Yeah.” Raven snuggles closer into Clarke. “I think I’m going to kiss Wells on New Year’s.”  


Clarke grins, eyes remaining closed. “I’m glad. It’s been a long time coming.” 

“Yeah, well - whatever,” Raven huffs.

Clarke giggles, feeling light and happy and hazy. She feels her friend grasp her hand and she feels warm and safe and loved.

Still, she felt better last night.

***

Someone is rolling on top of Clarke, and not in a good way. She peeks an eye open, finding familiar dark braids and a black leather jacket.

“What the _fuck_ , Octavia,” Raven growls from beside her, smacking the girl on the arm.

“Ow!” Octavia whines, a hand moving to rub the area. She wiggles in between Clarke and Raven, eventually moving them enough to settle in the middle. Clarke’s not sure why this behaviour still surprises her. “Haven’t seen you two for a whole ten days and this is the greeting I get,” she sighs dramatically. Always a flair for dramatics.

Raven groans, though it sounds muffled by a pillow. “Why’re you even here? Isn’t it only like, eight?”

“It’s ten,” Octavia says, clearly unimpressed.

“Which means that it’s way too early to be jumping on our fucking bed to wake us up.”

“You are _really_ not a morning person.”

“You wouldn’t be either after spending a week with my fucking family.”

Octavia pats Raven’s head consolingly before turning to Clarke.

“Why aren’t you saying anything, missy?” She pokes her in the cheek.

Clarke groans, moving to bury her face in her pillow.

“Clarke’s hungover,” Raven supplies.

“Am not,” she says, petulant. 

“Are too. She was stumbling all over the place last night.”  


“Was not.”  


“Were too.”

“And when did we revert to third graders?”

“About the same time you decided to _jump on our fucking bed to wake us up,_ ” Raven mutters.

“Is Wells here?” Clarke interrupts their back and forth, casting an arm over her eyes to block the sun out. She had to move from her pillow to continue breathing. She’s bitter about it.

“Nah, but he said that he’s leaving the city soon and should be here by twelve. Which is why I’m waking you two up.”  


“I don’t see the connection,” Raven replies.  


Octavia sighs. “ _Obviously_ we’re doing Christmas lunch today, and Clarke - you’ve been delegated to cooking. Raven, you’re on clean up.”  


“So _why_ did you have to wake me up?”

“Because I’m mean.”  


“That you are.”

“Come on, missy,” Octavia says, pushing Clarke lightly on the shoulder.

“I don’t wanna,” Clarke whines, already pushing herself up to get out of bed.

“Well I’ve been up since four in the morning just to get here, so you can suck it up.”  


Clarke sighs heavily. “Who am I working with?”

“Well Bellamy’s doing the turkey, obviously. Lincoln’s doing dessert and Monty’s helping you with the easy shit.” 

“Awesome.”  


“Yep!”  


“You’re way too perky for a person who’s already been awake for six hours at ten in the morning.”  


“I know!”

Clarke pokes her tongue out at the grinning girl before heading into the bathroom to take a quick shower. After, she pulls on her ugly Christmas sweater - a group tradition - and heads downstairs, finding Monty and Lincoln already preparing some food.

“Where’s Bellamy?” She asks, pouring herself a cup of coffee and stealing a piece of toast from a plate left on the bench. She narrows her eyes at Monty when he smirks. 

“Shower,” he replies, smile sly.

“Cool, well - somebody give me orders.”

She’s told to start peeling potatoes - there are a lot seeing as there are nine people who all love potato - and when she’s ten minutes and a third of the way through, Bellamy saunters in. His hair is in wet curls, reminding Clarke of how he looked in the shower yesterday, which is entirely unhelpful, and his sweater is truly hideous. She ignores the fact that he’s still able to look good with how it fits snug against his broad chest and nice arms. Clarke narrows her eyes at him too, just because. 

The morning runs surprisingly smoothly for preparing such an impromptu lunch. Her job is easy, which is good because one, she’s not a good cook and two, she’s still slightly hungover. Her only role is to peel and chop vegetables, and prepare platters of cheese and dips. It’s hard to fuck up that badly, so she’s happy. Bellamy’s gets the turkey in the oven and Monty and Lincoln make sure that all the sides are prepared. They’ve got a descent spread, actually, and Clarke has to stop herself from eating another piece of toast to make sure her belly’s empty for the feast.

Wells arrives just before twelve, and with that the Christmas festivity seems to be kicked up a notch. He and Octavia fight over which carols to blast, and Jasper makes a new batch of eggnog that is decidedly strong on the bourbon. It’s a nice atmosphere, fun and easy and teasing, like they always are, and Clarke finds herself incredibly grateful for the bunch of delinquents that have somehow become hers. 

“Where’d the mistletoe come from?” Raven asks as she takes the appetiser platters into the living room.  


“My guess is Octavia,” Clarke says, frowning at the plant hung from the door frame to the kitchen. She spots another five in the next thirty seconds, which is really quite impressive. 

“Do you think she knows that with a boyfriend she doesn’t need mistletoe as an excuse?”

“My thoughts were more that she’s pushing her own agenda to get other couples together.”

“Huh. Very O.”  


“Yep,” Clarke says, nudging her friend in the hip to offer a sly grin.

“Shut up.”  


“I didn’t say anything!”  


Raven scoffs. “Shut up.”

Miller and Monty are the first to get caught underneath any of the mistletoe, which is equally boring and adorable. As everyone settles into the living room, drinks and easy conversation flowing, their engagement is brought up. 

“So,” Raven says, subtly positioning herself next to Wells on the couch. Clarke has to bite back a smile. “How did it happen?”  


“Yeah, what’d you say?” Octavia asks Miller. “Oh my god, _did you get on one knee?_ ”

Monty grins, eyes flashing to Miller as they sit on the definitely one-person sized arm chair together.

“He was so nervous,” he begins to explain.  


“I was not,” the man in question scoffs.  


“Shush, don’t interrupt,” Clarke says, throwing a random Christmas ornament she finds at him.

“It was all very romantic,” Monty teases, although his flushed cheeks tell everyone that he loved every minute of it. “He took me out for dinner at this restaurant along the beach. It was _freezing,_ but still gorgeous.  I’m talking fairy lights, roses, champagne, the whole thing.”

“Aw, Miller,” Bellamy coos. “I didn’t know you were such a sap.”

“Shut the fuck up, Blake,” he mutters, sending his friend a dark look.

“After dinner we walked along the beach until we got to this ice cream truck,” Monty continues, taking Miller’s hand and squeezing. “It was _so_ cold, but he kept insisting that we got some because we went there the first time I met his parents.”  


“Oh my god, was the ring in the ice cream?” Jasper gasps, hitting Monty in the arm repeatedly from his place on the floor. 

“No,” Monty chuckles. “Thankfully. He just wanted it to be all romantic about it,” he grins at his fiancé, Miller smiling back fondly. “We sat on the beach until he handed over a box, so technically he didn’t get down on one knee.”  


“Oh my god, that’s so sweet,” Octavia coos. “Show us the ring again.” 

Monty sighs, pulling up his left hand to display the simple golden band. 

“When’re you proposing to me?” Octavia whines to Lincoln, slapping him on the chest.  


“Don’t you dare answer that,” Bellamy says, pointing to the man threateningly.

Lincoln smiles placatingly at Bellamy before wrapping his arms around Octavia. Bellamy seems satisfied enough, even though she turns her head to kiss her boyfriend. 

“Mistletoe,” she explains, smily coy as she points up to the ceiling. Raven and Clarke share an amused look of understanding. 

The group continues to talk away, two bottles of wine opened and shared before they even begin eating. Everybody is able to exchange details of their Christmases and families and presents, which only serves to remind Octavia about Secret Santa. 

“Everybody put their present under the tree before we have dessert,” she says sternly, somehow able to maintain hard eye contact despite her lack of sleep and excess of alcohol. The whole group nods quickly, and within ten minutes Clarke notices five presents under the tree. The girl can be scary.

By the time they sit down for lunch, just past two, everybody is on the definite side of tipsy. They all look ridiculous, dumb sweaters with stupid patterns, big, lazy grins and bright eyes. The food is amazing - Bellamy really is a good cook (and Clarke’s very proud of her roast potatoes and pumpkin) - and she gorges herself on everything that’s on offer at the dining room table.

“So not that I’m not happy,” Octavia says as lunch is winding down. “Because it’s nice to see you both in one piece, but how did you two survive this past week?”

They’ve somehow managed to sit down next to each other, although Clarke maintains (to herself, in her head) that it’s so that Raven can sit next to Wells. She’s a fantastic wing-woman.

“We called a truce,” Clarke says honestly, bringing her glass up to her lips only to find it empty. She frowns like it’s personally offended her (it has) and settles it back onto the table.

“Huh,” Octavia responds, glancing between them with narrowed eyes. “A truce for Christmas or a truce forever?” 

“Oh, _forever_ ,” Clarke says, her voice laced with just enough sarcasm for her words to seem suspicious.  “We’re going to be bestest friends from now on.” She smiles sweetly, glancing to Bellamy and finding him grinning back. This is what they do - unsubtle mockery of their own relationship whenever they’re having a good day and trying to bait their friends. They find it hilarious. You know, when they’re having a good day.

“Right,” Octavia says, clearly unimpressed, and stands up. “Well for however long it is, I’m glad. So, I think it’s time for us to have a toast.”

“Oh my god, you’re pregnant!” Jasper exclaims, a hand moving to cover his gaping mouth.

“I am literally so drunk right now,” she tells him, waving the ridiculous notion off. “Okay, so we haven’t all known each other very long - well, except for Clarke and Wells but that’s only because you two are weird - but I can honestly say that you guys are my favourite people on this entire planet. Bell and I never had much growing up-” she sends her brother a warm smile and Clarke’s heart lurches. She thinks of chicken adobo and Christmases spent without many presents but with each other. “-but we’ve come out on the other side stronger than ever. If only he’d find himself a nice girl someday, then-” she begins muttering, prompted to stop by Lincoln’s hand on her own. Clarke chances a glance to Bellamy and finds him staring resolutely at his swaying sister. “Right, not the point. My point is that I’m lucky to have you guys, and you’re obviously lucky to have me, too. So, to the family we choose. Cheers,” she says, raising a glass of champagne. 

“Cheers,” everyone calls, raising their own glasses to clink them together. 

“Nice speech, O,” Raven comments. “Very self promotive.”  


“Thanks,” the girl grins.

Lunch winds down and the people who didn’t cook begin to clear the table and stack the dishwasher. It’s decided that everything else will be done tomorrow, because although it’s only just four, everyone is well on their way to drunk, and Clarke doesn’t really trust them not to break her stuff.

They exchange Secret Santa gifts when everyone returns to the living room. Clarke receives an art set that she’s been eyeing for a while, and suspects that it’s from Lincoln because he’s her go-to person to complain to about that kind of stuff. The small grin he’s wearing supports her suspicions and she gives him an extra long hug when the affair is over.

“Mistletoe!” Octavia yells, pointing between them and the ceiling. “Wait! You can’t kiss Lincoln on the lips. That’s a rule from now on.” She stares at every single one of them again, and like before, they all nod in agreement quickly. 

Clarke laughs and plants one on Lincoln’s cheek dramatically, getting a round of applause and cheering in return. And so begins the calling out of mistletoe. 

She and Monty go off on a twenty minute drunken quest to the attic to find the old Nintendo 64 she insists she still owns, and when they return (in victory), Wells calls them out and Monty sweeps a quick peck on her lips.  


“Hey!” Miller shouts, indignant, and is by Monty’s side in seconds, stealing a kiss. And then another one from Clarke, because he’s a drunk idiot who didn’t realise she was still standing there. 

The night continues with more laughter and alcohol and dancing and video games and kissing. Octavia kisses Clarke and Raven kisses Miller and Bellamy kisses Wells and Jasper kisses Wells and _Clarke_ kisses Wells, and _finally_ Raven kisses Wells. It’s the first real one of the night, and everyone cheers ridiculously as she pulls him down to capture his lips in a heated kiss. It really has been a long time coming.

Clarke’s still grinning like an idiot as she stands at the kitchen sink, gazing over the backyard now covered in melted snow, drinking a large glass of water she definitely needs.  


“Hey,” Bellamy say from behind her. She can hear the smile in his voice.

“Hey, yourself,” she says, turning around to lean against the back counter. She offers him some water and he accepts gratefully.

“Today’s been good, hasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Clarke agrees, smiling softly. “It’s been really good. Everyone’s so happy. I can’t remember the last time we were all this happy.”

“Yeah,” Bellamy chuckles, walking a few steps to lean on the kitchen island opposite her. He hands her back the glass and she takes it, grateful to have something to hold in her hands. “Hey, so, I just wanted to say - whatever happens, I still want to be friends.” His words are slurred but she knows how genuine they are from the glint in his eyes. 

“Yeah, same,” she says, swallowing hard. 

“I just - I don’t like that you hated me. Or still hate me,” he murmurs, ducking his head down as though he’s embarrassed.  


“I don't. I never hated you, Bell.”  


“You didn’t?” He asks, raising his gaze and looking at her incredulously.

“No, I didn’t. It’s not your fault that I fell for you,” she confesses, the alcohol flowing in her veins making the words roll out easily. 

“You fell for me?” His voice is small and he shifts from where he was leaning, begins to step forward.

Before she can respond Jasper comes barrelling in, oblivious to the moment he’s interrupted.  


“Oh, water - good idea, Mum,” he grins at Clarke, taking the glass from her hand and chugging it down. 

“Stop calling me Mum, Jasper,” Clarke sighs.

“No.”  


“Jasper.”  


“No.”  


“ _Jasper._ ”  


“See, you just _sound_ like a mum. It’s not my fault,” he says, turning around with her glass in hand. 

Clarke rolls her eyes and watches him leave the kitchen. She glances quickly to Bellamy. He’s smiling in amusement in the boy’s direction and she figures that the moment is over, so she follows Jasper out, too.

As soon as she reaches the entry to the living room Octavia squeals.  


“Mistletoe,” she cries in glee, pointing to the plant and then to Clarke and then to Bellamy and then back to the plant.  


Everyone turns to watch them, eyes wide and full of amusement, their grins all slowly growing. They seem to be waiting with bated breath, shuffling to the edge of their seats as they silently urge the pair on. 

“Oh, fuck it,” she hears Bellamy mutter, and just as the remixed Christmas carol being blasted reaches the drop, he tugs her by the hand into his chest, and dips her low. 

His mouth lands on hers, one hand holding her up at the small of her back and the other supporting her head. She hears the cackle of laughter and shouts of amusement and delight as Bellamy’s lips move quickly against hers, hungry and passionate. It’s all dramatics, honestly, and Clarke’s not surprised at where Octavia gets it from. Her arms snake up and around his shoulders as she kisses him back - just for the show, really (really?) - and then he’s pulling her back up. She breaks away from him with a burst of laughter, pushing against his chest in mock disgust, and offers their crowd a bow. 

“Now there's something I thought I'd never see,” Octavia says, barely able to contain her laughter. 

Clarke rolls her eyes but can’t bite back the grin spreading across her face.

In fact, she’s pretty sure it stays there for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah apparently i'm incapable of not writing smut in this story, but I hope it still flows with it all - I know I got a lot more explicit in the last two chapters.  
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Lemme know what you thought about the whole gang being there and about bellarke interactions! Get ready to get angsty woo.  
> Comments/kudos are so fantastic but so is everyone reading this in the first place :) Thank you!!!!


	5. 29.12/30.12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me @ me: okay, don't write over 10K words this time.  
> Me also @ me: nah.  
> SO yeah, this chapter is even longer than the last whooooops I don't know why. I hope you don't think I'm dragging it out heaps (someone honestly stop me because this is legit almost double the length of the first chapter and that's ridiculous). Also sorry it took ages to update i'm pretty busy atm :( :(  
> A huge, massive thank you to the wonderful wetbellamyblake (ao3) /bellamysking (tumblr - follow bc she's amazing) for telling me to go with my gut with some of the angst I was questioning.  
> This chapter is kind of a mess of things you get fluff and smut and angst all in one, but you definitely end w angst because I miss having people angry with me at the end of chapters!!  
> Hope you enjoy guys :) :)

_October 2014._

_“I’m fine,” Clarke repeats for what just might be the twentieth time this evening. And just like the last nineteen, her friends look to her in equal parts sympathy and disbelief._

_“You’re not fine,” Monty says carefully, like Clarke might break with the wrong words._

_“I’m fine,” she groans. Twenty one. “I’m fine, I’m fine.” Twenty two, twenty three. “Now are we watching this movie or what?”_

_Monty and Jasper glance at each other, and upon Jasper’s shrug Monty sighs and begins the movie. It’s just the three of them tonight - Wells is at a benefit for his father that Clarke was able to get out of and Raven’s on the prowl to get over ‘that idiot Scruffy’. They offered to go out with her but a series of texts told them that she already found someone - “He’s very pretty and looks nothing like Scruffy and his hands make this night look promising” - and wouldn’t be needing their company._

_So instead they’re having a Lord Of The Rings movie marathon, because the boys_ _obviously know that something’s up with Clarke and the trilogy always makes her feel better._

_In fact apparently everyone knows that something’s up with Clarke, or more specifically that she and Eggplant Emoji broke up (if she can even call it that - how can you break up with someone if you were never really together?). She knows that Wells somehow figured out what she was so upset about - she’s not exactly surprised; he’s always had a knack for reading Clarke like an open book - and must’ve relayed the information to their friends. The teasing and questions about her booty call have stopped, which she’s incredibly grateful for, but she also wishes her friends wouldn’t look at her like she’s a puppy who’s been repeatedly kicked. It’s beginning to make her feel like a puppy who’s been repeatedly kicked._

_The two boys come to sit on the couch, each curling around next to her and offering her warmth and support. She leans her head on Monty’s shoulder and grasps Jasper’s hand._

_“I’m fine,” she says again, just a whisper this time._

_“You’re going to be,” Monty promises, and Jasper squeezes her hand._

_It’s been a week, and she’s still hurting, but yeah - she’ll be fine. She_ is _fine._

_She’s - fine, and maybe if she says it enough times she’ll believe it, too._

_***_

_It’s mid October when Raven takes her out to a bar._

_Apparently all her friends are trying their own methods to stop Clarke from moping - Wells took her to an art exhibit she'd been dying to see, Jasper to laser tag, and Monty on a picnic to the Botanical Gardens. Raven’s method seems to be alcohol and sex._

_“The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else,” she tells Clarke with a sly grin. It’s a toast, and they clink their glasses before letting the shot of tequila burn a trail down their throats. She’s still not a tequila girl, but Raven insisted._

_“That’s what got me into this mess,” Clarke tells her friend after she’s recovered from the shot. “This literally started because I was trying to get over Finn.” She sighs, knowing that Raven understands. Raven had Scruffy and she had Bellamy. They both went to shit, just in very different ways._

_“Yeah, well maybe this time we make sure it’s just a one night stand. It worked for me last week.”_

_Clarke huffs a laugh. That’s what Bellamy was supposed to be - almost a year ago now actually, but. Well, things change._

_“I think the best thing for me to do is stay away from everyone for a while. No boys, no girls. Just work out my shit without getting anyone else involved.”_

_Raven sighs but doesn’t comment further. This is the most they’ve talked about relationships really, and it’s still with anonymity of partners and alcohol to loosen their tongues. She wonders if there will always be this barrier between them, but she hopes not. She thinks they’ll get there one day - get to the point that they can talk about relationships without the memory of Finn fucking them both over - but today’s not going to be that day._

_So instead of talking it through, they drink, and with each shot Clarke’s body feels a little lighter and her heart not as tense._

_It’s a mask she knows - one just for the night - but it’s something._

_***_

_“You realise that people are going to ask you two to make out, right?” Monty asks, eyeing Clarke from his position in front of Raven. She hadn’t really thought about that, but yeah - it’s definitely a possibility. They’re going as Han and Leia, and they’re both hot, so._

_“Stop moving your face,” Raven demands, tugging Monty’s face down to continue working on his eyeliner. “And if they do then I’ll punch them in the face.”_

_“I second that,” Clarke says._

_“Or maybe I’ll just make out with Clarke.”_ _Clarke barks out a laugh. She_ would _make out with Raven if the girl wasn’t one of her best friends. Actually, she’d probably make out with Raven regardless._

_“…I also second that.”_

_Monty sighs, ignoring them. “Tell me again why a pirate has to wear eyeliner.”_

_“Have you seen Johnny Depp? Because it’s hot,” Raven retorts with a scoff. “And you want to look hot in front of your new boyfriend.”_

_“He’s not my boyfriend,” Monty insists._

_“Fine, your soon to be boyfriend. He invited you to a Halloween party - tonight definitely has make out potential.”_

_“You think that about every night,” Clarke muses._

_“That’s because every night_ does _have make out potential.”_

_Clarke laughs again and shakes her head in amusement. Her friend definitely has a good philosophy on making out._

_“So you’re sure we’re good to go to this party?” She asks Monty, finishing her hair and pinning it into position. She’s got a lot of bobby pins and product in it, which basically means it’ll be a bitch to deal with tomorrow, but whatever. She looks cool as hell tonight._

_“I’m sure,” Monty says. “Nate said to bring whoever I like.”_

_Clarke bites back a grin, glancing at Monty to find a blush creeping up onto his cheeks. He’s told them a very minimal amount about his boyfriend-not-boyfriend, and only mentioned that his name was Nate today. Apparently they met about a month ago at a bar and have been seeing each other since - not yet exclusive but definitely heading there. Clarke can’t wait to see her friend blush and melt into a puddle in front of the man. He’s very smitten already._

_“Okay, I’m done,” Raven declares, stepping back from Monty to inspect her work. “You look good. Your boyfriend’s definitely going to make out with you tonight.”_

_Monty sighs again, but chooses not to correct her this time. They finish their last minute touch ups and all grab their weapon of choice - Monty a sword and Raven and Clarke blasters - before heading out to the living room to finish pre-gaming with Wells and Jasper._

_Wells is Captain America, looking so incredibly fine that Clarke has to remind herself that he’s like a brother to her, while Jasper’s a mad scientist. He didn’t have to buy anything for the costume, and doesn’t appear all that different from when he comes home from the lab, but still looks pretty hilarious._

_“To Monty getting laid,” Raven toasts, and the gang laughs but drink nonetheless. As far as reasons to drink go, it’s a pretty good one._

_The party is about a half hour from Clarke’s place, and they grab a cab rather than trying to weather public transport on such a busy night._

_“So Nate told me that his roommate sleeps around a bit,” Monty tells Clarke as they approach the house. “And I told him that you wouldn’t go for it after…” He falters then adds “sorry.”_

_Clarke shrugs it off. It’s kind of her friend, but mostly unnecessary. “So you’ve met the roommate?”_

_“Kind of. I saw him in passing, but haven’t spoken to him or anything. He’s hot, though. Like, I’d tell you to go for it if you weren’t swearing off relationships.”_

_She laughs despite herself. “Maybe Raven will go for him.”_

_“I’m sure she will,” Monty says with a sly grin. “You going to be okay?” He asks, sliding his hand into Clarke’s to give it a quick squeeze._

_“Yeah,” Clarke smiles, “I’m feeling good. I’m just excited to meet your boyfriend.”_

_Monty laughs and gives her hand another squeeze before pushing the front door open - there’s a note telling them to_ COME RIGHT ON IN. _The house is dark and the music is loud, plastic pumpkins glowing as they’re littered along the hallway and continue into the living room. It’s close to packed inside and everyone seems to be tipsy (most have actually put in effort for their costumes) which makes the night feel even more promising. She and her friends navigate through the large crowd of people dancing and talking until they make it to a free corner in the living room. She feels good. She’s got a nice buzz going on and is ridiculously excited to meet Nate, and she’s happy to spend Halloween with her closest friends and possibly drunkenly discuss Star Wars with other people she meets. The fact that she’s wearing an awesome costume to match is also helping._

_“Shotgun?” Raven suggests, pulling out the six pack they brought._

_“Fuck yeah!” Clarke hollers, and they all shotgun a beer as part of their first-drink-at-a-house-party tradition._

_As they’re half-laughing-half-blanching Monty searches the crowd until his eyes light up. He worries his lip for a moment and Clarke shoves him in the shoulder, raising an eyebrow like a challenge. He grins and she watches as he goes to find his boyfriend-not-boyfriend, the smile pulling on her lips faltering as she recognises the man Monty stops in front of. Miller._

_Her eyelids fall shut heavily as she processes the information. Nate, Monty had told them. And she’s just now remembering that Miller’s first name is actually Nathan. She hasn’t head it since she first met him at the bar he works at, and would never have thought to make the connection._

_“You okay?” Wells asks, nudging her on the shoulder. She looks up, finding him watching her with concern etched on his face, and she’s not surprised in the least - always reading her like an open book._

_“Yeah,” she nods, trying to maintain a smile. In other circumstances she’d be happy to see Miller, but these ones aren’t ideal._

_“So guys,” Monty comes back with one Nathan Miller in hand. “This is Nate.”_

_“Miller, actually,” he says, smiling at the group. He seems nervous, and Clarke can’t help let out a small chuckle. His eyes land on her and he looks visibly surprised. “Clarke.”_

_“Hey, Miller,” she smiles, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek in greeting. “How are you?”_

_“Yeah, good,” he says, glancing between her and Monty. “How do you two know each other?”_

_“We went to college together. How do you guys know each other?” Monty asks._

_“Uh, Miller’s been my bartender a few times,” she says, trying for a smirk while flicking her gaze to the man, pleading for him to go along with the story. He seems to understand and nods in agreement._

_“Yep, Clarke’s your regular bourbon and coke kind of girl.”_

_The group laughs and Raven slings an arm around her shoulder._ _“Sounds about right,” she grins, relieving some of the weird tension Clarke’s feeling._

_She’s more on edge than she normally would be at a party, but is still able to enjoy herself. Alcohol helps, as it generally does, and it’s only twenty minutes of talking before Raven pulls her into the crowd of people to dance. Nobody asks them to make out (Clarke doesn’t know whether or not to be disappointed) but two guys dressed up as Luke and Darth Vader ask to grab a photo which is pretty awesome. They pose and everything, and she posts it on Instagram with an appropriately funny caption. Wells and Jasper find them eventually, and the nerves that Clarke was feeling roll off her as the music thrums through her body and she dances along with the mess of people around her._

_In the end she spots him without even meaning to. It happens almost like it did last time, at the club - she leaves her friends on the dance floor to grab some water, and as she enters the kitchen, he’s just there. This time at least, she sees him first._

_He’s facing away from her, but there isn’t a universe in which she wouldn’t recognise his dark curls or the tanned expanse of his shoulders. He’s a Greek God, and she doesn’t mean as a compliment (although it’s hardly untrue). He’s wearing a white and navy toga and has a trident in hand, so she assumes he’s meant to be Poseidon. The thought shouldn’t make her heart clench as much as it does._

_Before tonight she hadn’t expected to run into him any time soon - even after seeing Miller part of her hoped that he wouldn’t be here - but when she allowed herself to imagine it she thought she’d feel angry, upset, heartbroken; thought she’d be gearing herself up for a fight. Instead she feels some sort of relief flood her body, like seeing him for these fifteen seconds has made her feel more whole than the past month without him. She wishes it wasn’t like that, but it is. She misses him. And when he laughs whatever hope she had that her feelings weren’t as strong as she remembered are diminished. It was love, or - it is. She’s not sure._

_She ducks away before he has the chance to see her and strides towards the hallway, finding the bathroom quickly. She leans against the door, breathing heavily and at a total loss of what to do. She doesn’t have to talk to him, she reasons, but Miller and Monty will want to say hi, and if she tries to avoid them all night it might cause more problems. She doesn’t want Monty to think anything is wrong, she doesn’t want any of her friends to. But Monty’s words are ringing in her ears - that Nate’s roommate sleeps around - and Clarke has to muffle a sob at the thought that that’s all she ever was._

_It takes a few minutes to steady her heart rate and breathing, and she suspects the twisting in her stomach isn’t going away any time soon. After patting some cool water onto her flushed skin and taking one last deep breath, she opens the door and heads back to her friends._

_They’re all on the back deck, apparently tired of dancing, passing around a bottle of vodka while talking to a girl Clarke hasn’t met. She looks familiar somehow, but Clarke can’t place where from._

_Raven passes her the bottle and Clarke takes a hearty swig, hoping it’ll help somehow._

_“Wow, Leia can drink,” the new girl laughs, taking the bottle from Clarke when she offers it._

_“Clarke,” she introduces herself, a hand moving to cover her mouth as she blanches._

_“Octavia,” the girl grins before taking a drink herself. She’s glad that Octavia isn’t watching her expression fall, because there’s no way Clarke would forget that name._

_She glances to Miller and he nods infinitesimally, confirming Clarke’s thoughts. Octavia - Bellamy’s sister. Nobody seems to notice her falter and the bottle continues to be passed around, the conversation resuming around her. She chats with Octavia, not wanting to be rude, and finds herself liking the girl a lot. She’s someone that Clarke could definitely see herself becoming friends with, but - she’s also Bellamy’s sister, and it’s difficult not to notice the similarities now that she knows that information. Octavia’s funny and sharp, a certain steel behind her eyes that she saw in Bellamy’s as well. She’s dressed as a warrior princess, which is just all sorts of cool, and seems to have the job to match - jiu jitsu instructor - while completing her degree in social work. The fact that she teases Miller relentlessly also helps, and she gets everyone laughing as she recalls her teenage years practicing makeup on the boy. The more they talk, the more Clarke likes her, which again, feels just like Bellamy._

_“Bell!” Octavia calls after about half an hour of chatting, her whole face lighting up. Clarke’s stomach clenches with the name, her hand tightening its grip on the bottle of vodka she’s just been given. It’s said with such fondness and love, and Clarke wonders whether that’s how the name sounded falling from her own lips._

_She glances to find Bellamy walking out onto the deck, turning his gaze to find his sister. A large smile breaks onto his face when he does, and Clarke’s sure she only sees it falter when he sees her because she’s looking for it. She tries to keep her own expression neutral, feeling like she’s waiting for the shoe to drop, for everyone to call her out on her terrible poker face, when Raven chokes on her beer._

_“Holy shit,” she rasps, coughing for a few moments. Bellamy stands between Octavia and Miller, giving his sister a quick hug before glancing towards Raven. His eyes widen and flick to Clarke for less than a second before landing back on her friend. He looks uncomfortable, and Clarke watches the exchange with mild dread. There’s a part of her that just_ knows _where this is going. “Bellamy, right?”_

_“Yeah,” Bellamy says, voice hoarse before clearing his throat. “Raven?”_

_“Yeah,” Raven laughs. “He’s the pretty one with nice hands,” she tells Clarke, not bothering to even pretend to whisper._

_“Oh, jeez,” Octavia groans, saving Clarke from having to respond. She darts her eyes to Miller and finds him already watching her, that same expression from a month ago etched on his face - so full of sympathy she kind of wants to cry. “That’s my brother,” Octavia complains, making a face before cuffing Bellamy over the head._

_“Sorry, Pocahontas,” Raven shrugs, already taking another pull of her beer._

_Octavia rolls her eyes and Clarke takes another swig of vodka. She’s definitely getting drunk instead of tipsy, now._

_“So Bellamy,” Octavia says, “This is Miller’s boyfriend Monty, and his friends Jasper, Wells, Raven - who I guess you already know - and Clarke,” she lists off._

_His eyes land on Clarke and they share a moment of tense eye contact before she looks away._

_“Nice to meet you,” she says pointedly, her voice harder than she anticipated. She takes yet another swig of vodka, close to gagging as she pulls it away and hands it over to Octavia. There’s a weird silence for a few moments, and she’s so sure someone will mention the awkward exchange, but thankfully Jasper continues the conversation and her friends turn their curious gazes from her._

_She listens but doesn’t chime in, everyone’s words making it to her ears but not being processed. She can feel Bellamy’s eyes land on her every few minutes but she resolutely ignores him, instead making sure she has a drink in her hand at all times. Because if she doesn’t have something to hold onto she might cry, and if she doesn’t continue to drink she might think about the fact that her best friend and the boy she still loves fucked each other. And she can’t think about that._

_Because her best friend and the boy she still loves fucked each other and Clarke’s heart hurts and her stomach twists and she has to clench her teeth so hard to stop tears from prickling her eyes. She doesn’t realise how tense she is, how tight her grip on her empty bottle is, until she smacks it onto the railing of the deck. It’s with a lot more force than she was going for, and as the bottle shatters she feels a shard of glass slice her palm._

_“Mother fuck,” she swears, jerking her hand away from the bottle. Everyone’s watching her again and she all of a sudden feels too drunk, her eyes heavy and her body swaying. “Sorry.” She’s not exactly sure who she’s apologising to._

_“Shit, Clarke,” Octavia says, grabbing her hand to inspect it. Clarke knows she doesn’t need stitches - being the daughter of a doctor will teach you that - but it’ll need to be cleaned and covered. “This is my place. We’ve got a first aid kit in the bathroom.”  
_

_“I can help you with it,” Bellamy offers, a pleading edge to his voice that only she (and Miller) would pick up. She can’t exactly say no, so nods before offering her friends a smile._

_He follows her into the house, and ends up nodding for her to go upstairs. He doesn’t say anything, just leads her to the second storey bathroom. It’s not as loud, the sound of music and people drowned out by the distance and the alcohol pulsing through her veins, the proximity of the man in front of her._

_She sits on the lid of the toilet while Bellamy searches the cupboard for the first aid kit, presenting her hand when he finds it. He kneels in front of her, wiping away some of the blood that has gathered with a wet face washer before removing the small shards of glass sparkling on her skin. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t dare to make a noise as he cleans the cuts, as his hands lightly caress her shaky one. His are careful, never pressing with too much pressure, and it reminds Clarke of things she’d rather forget, things she was drinking_ to _forget. He covers her palm with a small bandage, but doesn’t show any sign of moving them once it’s secured._

_Clarke looks up from their hands, oddly linked, to find him gazing at her with sad eyes. He looks small, like he has only a few times before, and still she cannot hate him. She glances away, pulling her hand from his grasp before doing anything stupid. Like leaning in to remember the taste of his mouth, the feel of his hair running through her fingers, the distinct smell of Bellamy she’d get from pressing her face into the crook of his neck._

_He sighs and shuffles back, giving her the space she both craves and despises._

_Clearing her throat, Clarke sits up a little straighter. “Nobody finds out,” she says. “None of my friends, okay? None of them are finding out that we used to-” she falters, blinking rapidly to stop the tears that are threatening to spill._

_“See each other?” Bellamy supplies hesitantly, his voice all wrong. It’s sad and pleading, not at all the acid she wishes it to be. It isn’t harsh or biting or taunting, it does nothing to spark any rage within her. It leaves her empty, just like before._

_She stands and walks to the bathroom door, feeling Bellamy’s gaze on the back of her head. Before stepping out of the room completely she turns around and looks him in the eye._

_“Fuck you, Bellamy.”_

\--- --- --- 

There’s a knock on her bedroom door and Clarke’s eyes flutter open as the sound echoes in the silent house. She’s still awake, much to her chagrin - sleep escaping her despite the early hours of the morning. She wonders whether it’s Raven, but can’t imagine Wells turning her down tonight. Still, it's unlikely  to be anyone else. The other option would be Bellamy, but he passed out on the couch before midnight even hit, and was left with a blanket tossed over him when everyone retreated to their bedrooms.

She walks to the door with a slight frown, opening it to find the man. He’s swaying where he stands, eyes glassed over and only wearing a pair of boxer briefs. He’s obviously still drunk, but then again so is she. 

“What’re you doing?” She hisses quietly, peeking out of her bedroom to glance down the hallway. She tugs him inside, cautious of being caught in this compromising position - both of them half dressed, barely an outfit between them.

“I missed you,” he murmurs, slurs really, stepping to stand right in front of her. His hands slide to the small of her back, pulling her close, and he begins nosing her collarbone. She sighs, arching her neck when she feels his lips press against the skin there.

“We’re not having sex,” she tells him. He pulls back, eyes searching her own. “We’re not having sex when our friends are all here. Not before we work out…whatever this is.”

His hands move to cradle her face, delicate, before leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to her lips.

“I missed _you,_ Clarke.”

Her eyes flutter shut and she covers his hands with her own. “Not just the sex?” She asks, feeling more vulnerable than she’s let herself be in a while.

“Not just the sex.”

She nods, taking a deep breath before stepping past him to lock the door to the room. She takes his hand and leads him to her bed. He gathers her in his arms, pulling her into his chest before running his fingers through her hair lightly. As she sighs, his touch calming and so familiar, she winds an arm around his middle to bring his warmth even closer. The man she’s missed so much. 

“How’d you know that Raven wasn’t in here?” She asks after a few minutes, her voice already drowsy.

“Please,” Bellamy scoffs. “I saw her sneaking into Wells’ room five minutes ago.”

Clarke giggles into his chest, Bellamy’s arms tightening around her as she does. 

“We still need to talk,” he says after a while, and she might actually kill him if he tells her that one more time.

“I know,” she whispers, honest. “But we’re drunk and I’m scared.”

He holds her tighter, and she lets herself believe, as she drifts to sleep, that this could all work out. She doesn’t know whether the _so am I_ she hears comes from him or is just a dream.

***

When Clarke wakes next it’s to Bellamy shifting next to her, sliding out of her arms, and she panics. 

“Where’re you going?” She asks, the sleep in her voice thankfully masking her nerves. She wishes she didn't care so much, wishes that the cold exterior she could normally put up in a flash wasn’t crumbling around her. But that’s what Bellamy does to her.

He turns around, eyes softening as he takes her in. She probably looks like a mess, but he’s seen her in pretty much every and any state, so she doesn’t mind.

“It’s already past eight, and I thought it’d be better if people didn’t catch us together like this.”

Clarke nods, trying to keep herself from frowning. She knows that he’s right, but wishes she could bask in his warmth for a little while longer. Bellamy leans back down and catches her bottom lip in his, pulling a sleepy hum from her. 

“I’ll see you soon,” he promises, and then he’s gone.

Clarke pulls the blankets more tightly around her, trying to recreate the safety she felt in his arms, though she knows it’s in vain. She wants to fall back to sleep, the five hours she got not nearly enough, but the throbbing in her head and the queasiness in her stomach makes it difficult; the way her mind races definitely not helping either.

She knows that they need to talk, and she wants to. Well, part of her wants to. The part that’s rational and knows that everything that has happened between her and Bellamy is because they _didn’t_ talk wants to. But the other part of her wants to stay in this little bubble they’ve created and ignore the fact that this might mean different things to each of them. Because if it does - if they talk and he doesn’t want her like she’s never really stopped wanting him, then she’s put herself on the line again. Let herself begin falling for someone who won’t love her back. And she’s not sure whether she could survive that heartbreak for a second time.

It’s been a secret for so long. For over a year Clarke has had to hide her feelings, has had to get over a man she saw constantly, has had to stop herself from falling into a downward spiral whenever she thought of him with Raven. It’s been a secret for so long that Clarke doesn’t know how to go back. She doesn’t know how to explain it to their friends, how to admit her feelings to Bellamy, how to put everything out in the open once and for all.

And there’s part of her that’s just waiting for something to happen. Something that’ll stop this past week from turning into anything more. Because while it’s the best they’ve been together for over a year, she knows how quickly she and Bellamy can go back to their old ways. Sometimes it feels like it’s just the momentum of their relationship - they’ve been combative for so long that they don’t know how to stop - and others it feels like the defence mechanism it started out as. 

She had to be rude and standoffish at the beginning, had to let the harsh words she spat build a wall around her heart. She couldn’t let herself be sucked any further into Bellamy, not when she’d already let herself fall for him, not when she knew that he didn’t feel the same. So she started a precedent and soon he met it, and Clarke could forget how his lips felt against hers, how the simple press of his chest against her back would get her heart racing, how his arms wrapping around her body made her feel impossibly safe. It’s been their dynamic for so long that she doesn’t know how they’d stop, or how to let herself believe that they even could. 

And they’ve slept together again, which makes everything even more difficult. It happened three months ago, too, but that was different - a way for Clarke to escape. This time it was a way for her to consume; to let herself have Bellamy because he’s _Bellamy_ , to remember everything she’s kept locked away for so long. She wants this, but she’s scared. She doesn’t know how to protect herself this time, but that’s the point, isn’t it? You put yourself on the line and hope - hope that even though things haven’t worked out in the past, maybe it’d be different this time.

They need to talk, she knows that, but with all of their friends at the cabin, it’s neither the time nor the place. So instead she lets herself hope.

***

Clarke hardly holds in the moan threatening to part her lips, her head lolling slightly as deft hands expertly press and slide and roll across her back. The tension that’s made a home in her muscles with her hangoverleave in waves, and she finds herself beginning to doze, imagining the small, smooth press on her warm skin as larger, more calloused. 

She’d discovered that she would be having her second girls’ day of the week when she finally made it downstairs in the morning. Octavia was in the kitchen, a mug in hand and somehow looking not-totally-dead, grinning slyly at Clarke when she trudged into the room.

“Me, you, Rave, spa.”

“What’re you saying to me?” Clarke had asked, taking Octavia’s mug and blanching when she found it half full with green tea. 

“Spa day! Like, a girls’ day for your birthday.” 

“Is there even a spa around here?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Octavia replied, rolling her eyes. “There’s one forty minutes out and Rave and I have made a booking.”

And so here she is, two hours later, receiving an insanely good massage that she’s trying to stay awake for to appreciate in full. As presents go, it’s definitely a good one. While Clarke can easily afford this type of treatment - weekly, even - she doesn’t like to spend money so trivially. She doesn’t want to be the spoiled princess she’s been accused of being so often, rich parents as a child and a house and inheritance in her name at only twenty four. But it’s nice to do this every once in a while, especially with her two best friends only a curtain away, enjoying the same treatment that she is, for a special birthday present. 

She doesn’t actually get to spend much time with just Octavia and Raven, even though they’re incredibly close. It’s just - their entire friendship group is very close knit, and whenever the girls plan something for just the three of them, someone else inevitably shows up and joins in, and they’re not big enough assholes to kick them out. Which is kind of surprising, because individually all three of them are kind of really big assholes, but apparently not the _kick your friends out_ type. So it’s nice to spend time relaxing with the girls in an already-planned outing.

She suspects that another reason for the well-organised and strictly timed girls’ day is to let the boys set up a surprise party for Clarke. She caught Octavia writing a note before they left for the day, and when she peaked over the girl’s shoulder she caught the first few lines: _Dear boys, here is a list of things to do today. I’ll text through numbers of people you need to inv…_ before being shrieked at. Octavia unsubtly hid the piece of paper until Clarke retreated with her arms raised in surrender, and that act sparked her suspicion. Still, she doesn’t say anything, because again, she may be an asshole, but not the type that tries to ruin a surprise party that might be being planned in her honour. And if it turns out that they _aren’t_ planning a surprise party, she doesn’t want her friends to think they were supposed to.

So she let herself - very selflessly, she might add - be taken to a spa house and subjected to a full body massage along with a facial. Now she’s enjoying a delicious late lunch at an Italian restaurant, feeling thoroughly relaxed after the past three hours. 

“So what’s up with you and my brother?” Octavia asks. Well she _was_ , until Octavia asks that question.

“What do you mean?” Clarke says. She stuffs her mouth with a bite of spaghetti, giving herself an out incase she needs time to think of a response. It’s very ungraceful.

Octavia huffs, which might be fair, before levelling Clarke with an unimpressed glare. 

“I _mean,_ how did you actually survive a week by yourself?”

Clarke sighs. “I told you: we declared a truce.” It’s the truth, just - a little spun. “You know we can get along sometimes.”

“I do know that,” Octavia narrows her eyes. “Which is why it’s supremely annoying when you decide not to. But I can’t believe you _kissed_ him.”

Clarke panics for a moment, eyes going wide as she racks her brain to recall when Octavia would’ve seen that, and deflates when she remembers the mistletoe incident. Still, she can’t help the heat rushing to her cheeks, the guilt that gnaws on her stomach when she knows that she’s done much more than just kiss Bellamy. She always feels guilty, honestly. She knows it’s wrong to lie to her friends, especially Octavia, but it’s just self preservation.

“Are you kidding?” Raven snorts, shaking her head. “I can’t believe you haven’t _already_ kissed him. You two have insanely weird sexual tension whenever you fight. I’m surprised it took this long to manifest.”

“Actually, that’s true,” Octavia concedes seriously, pointing her fork at Raven while she nods. “Maybe I’m more surprised that you let it happen. I would’ve expected you to slap him on the face before kissing him back.”

Clarke gapes, eyes flicking between the two smirking girls. Of course _she’s_ noticed the sexual tension that sometimes pulses in the air when they fight, but of course she has. It’s happening to her. But she never would’ve thought that the others noticed, or that they wouldn’t call her and Bellamy out on it. If they did she probably would’ve confessed long ago.

“Are you guys serious?” She demands, finally stopping gaping long enough to ask. 

“Oh yeah,” Raven grins. “We talk about it all the time when you guys aren’t around. It’s just another part of your weird as fuck relationship.”

“Huh,” Clarke frowns, looking into her bowl of spaghetti like it might hold the answers to questions she doesn’t even know. “It’s weird you guys do that.”

“Not really.” 

“So seriously, what _is_ happening between you and my brother?”

“I am being serious! We declared a truce!” It feels like she’s blatantly lying to them now, even though it’s technically the truth. While they did declare a truce, they’ve done a lot more than just that, and it feels wrong to put everything down to that one little word. But she can’t tell her friends now - even though they’ve apparently picked up on more than she’s given them credit for - especially when she doesn’t even know what’s happening herself.

“And is this truce going to last?” Octavia asks, raising an eyebrow. “Because I’ll tell you, it’s bloody annoying when you two fight in front of the rest of us.”

Clarke swallows hard, her heart racing within her chest. She does feel guilty for burdening her complicated relationship with Bellamy on all of their friends. As much as the pair can laugh about it - like some sort of fucked up inside joke - she knows it must be frustrating and confusing for everyone else with how hot and cold they can be. They do make an effort to behave in group situations (now at least) but it doesn’t always work out, and sometimes they’ll end up in screaming matches over the most ridiculous topics. Even when it _does_ work out and they’re able to get along great, teasing each other and ganging up on the rest of their friends at games nights, that probably isn’t much better. It just goes to show that they _can_ get along, but aren’t trying hard enough, which is definitely true. Clarke does feel guilty, but again, it’s momentum. 

“I’ll tell you when I know myself,” she says, hoping that it’s enough to placate her friends.

It seems to be, or maybe they just take pity on her, but the topic changes so Clarke’s happy. She feels herself relax again, and becomes even more giddy when the discussion is directed towards Raven and Wells and their undying love for each other. It’s a lot more fun than thinking about herself and Bellamy, so Clarke doesn’t hold back in teasing her friend.

“You _loooove_ him,” Octavia singsongs, earning a smack on the arm from a disgruntled Raven.

“Shut up, I do not.”

“You wanna _maaaarry_ him,” Clarke adds, grinning to further annoy Raven. 

She huffs out a breath, glaring at the two girls who are taking far too much enjoyment in their friend’s embarrassment.

“I fucking hate you two.”

Clarke and Octavia burst into another round of giggles, much to Raven’s chagrin, but eventually let up on their teasing. After their afternoon lunch Raven and Octavia insist on spending the rest of the day trying on clothes to find something for _New Year’s Eve,_ which only furthers Clarke’s suspicions.

“How unsubtle are we being?” Raven asks as Octavia plants the seventh dress that would look _so fucking hot on you_ in her hands. 

“About ten unsubtle, but I’m going with it,” Clarke says, flashing Raven a grin. “I’m just wondering how you were going to convince me to put on a new outfit before we went home.”

Raven snorts. “Octavia had a plan to spill a drink all over you, and the somehow turn that into all of us dressing up? Honestly, I don’t know what goes on in that girl’s head.”

“I’ll do you one better and spill it on myself - make her feel a little less guilty.”

“You’re so selfless,” Raven teases.

“Oh, I know,” Clarke sighs, feigning bother.

She finds a navy bandage dress which she’s practically bullied into buying, and instead of actually spilling a drink on herself, suggests that they get dressed up and hit a bar for a few drinks before heading home. She catches the gleeful grin Octavia shoots Raven and feels a surge of fondness for her friend.

They drive back into town, allowing them to drink without much restriction, and change into their new dresses in Octavia’s car. It’s a range rover, thankfully large enough to somewhat easily manoeuvre in (which is probably great for car sex, although she really shouldn’t be thinking that).

“Clarke,” Anya greets, eyeing her up and down with an amused expression before taking in the other two girls. “I see you’ve found more friends than the guy you-”

“Yep, I have,” Clarke interrupts, voice shrill.

Anya seems to understand the pleading look in Clarke’s eyes and instead of continuing her previous line of thought, asks the group for their order. They decide on cocktails, because it is a girls’ night after all, and after almost two hours and three delicious drinks, she’s feeling very giddy. When Octavia gets a text just past seven she very unsubtly suggests that they return to the cabin, and Clarke agrees easily, slapping Raven on the arm when she smirks.

She’s somehow still startled when the lights are flicked on and people jump out, screaming _SURPRISE!_ , but she suspects it’s just the anticipation of it all. She grins when her eyes flick around the small crowd, probably only twenty five people, but enough to make her feel cherished, and pulls Octavia and Raven into a tight hug.  


Monty offers her a drink almost immediately, and she blanches when she smells the telltale scent of moonshine, but takes it nonetheless. She makes the rounds of greeting and thanking everyone for coming, introducing the people that haven’t met yet. It’s fifteen minutes into the party that she’s able to catch her breath enough to realise who isn’t waiting to offer a happy birthday. 

She frowns, trying to subtly scan the room for Bellamy, and retreats upstairs with the excuse of putting her stuff away to check if he’s there. He isn’t, nor is he downstairs, and - it shouldn’t upset her, but she’s a few drinks into the night and it does. 

“He’ll be back,” Miller tells her when she returns to the party. She glances to him and he smiles, no judgement in his expression. “He just had to do something, but he’ll be back.”

“Thanks,” she says sincerely, and relaxes more after that. 

He returns to the cabin in less than twenty minutes, hiding a package behind his back, and flashes Clarke a large grin when he catches her eye. She looks at him curiously but he simply shakes his head, smile a little smug, and strides over to the kitchen.

Alcohol flows readily and everyone seems to drink it in excess, happily talking and dancing and laughing as the night continues. Drinking games are set up - _fuck the bus_ and _never have I ever_ \- and Clarke finds out that Octavia and Atom slept together last Christmas, which is both slightly weird and incredibly funny, and that Monroe and Harper camped in the cabin’s backyard for a week when their apartment was flooded, which should be weirder than it is, but Clarke just finds it fucking hilarious. 

She’s definitely drunk and feeling very sappy by the time the lights dim and Octavia walks out with a cake - candles and a _twenty four_ decoration placed on top. Everyone sings happy birthday and her grin is so wide that she finds it difficult to blow out the candles. She realises that the cake is not only her favourite - a double fudge chocolate that is _way_ too rich but she loves anyway - but also from the bakery she loves, back in the city. Her eyes find Bellamy and his smile is telling, eyes soft, and she mouths a _thank you_ to him. 

It’s after much more dancing and a few rounds of Mario Kart that she definitely would’ve won if it weren’t for the last three ciders that she stumbles into the kitchen. She definitely needs more water, and it’s totally her objective to find some, but then she runs into a very firm chest and suddenly her mind goes blank. 

“Happy birthday,” Bellamy says, not for the first time in the night,voice hoarse with alcohol. 

“Yeah, you too,” she replies absently, her hands moving up and down his arms, feeling the very lovely muscles his top is tragically covering.

“What?”

“What?”

“I said happy birthday and you said you too,” he chuckles and Clarke hums, smiling up at him. 

“I’m a little drunk,” she tells him, leaning forward to press a lingering kiss right on his lips.

“So am I,” he mumbles, and it’s all she needs to hear to push him into the walk-in pantry and close the door behind her. 

She wraps her arms around his shoulders, pulling him close and playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.He presses her against the door and she can feel all the hard planes of his body against hers, so familiar and delicious, before his mouth descends to meet her own. She slides her tongue in instantly, not sober enough to appreciate anything soft or sweet, instead feeling her body pulse with the desire for a kiss that’s wet and dirty, one that’ll leave her breathless. His hands move down her sides to cup her ass and he gives it a squeeze for good measure, pulling a breathy moan for Clarke when her hips buck and press against his.

“Wait, Clarke,” he murmurs when she breaks away to breathe, instead stealing small wet kisses from his lips. “This is dangerous. Everyone’s right outside.”

She hums in agreement, making no move to push him away and stop where this is going.

“Clarke,” he groans when she nips his bottom lip, and she grins salaciously at how her name sounds like that, all hot need and desire. 

“Yes?”

“You don’t want to do this,” he tells her, interrupted from his words when she kisses him again soundly. He lets her for a few moments, kissing her back with fervour before he groans, stepping back and ducking her lips when they chase his. She pouts petulantly and he sighs. “You don’t want to do this with our friends outside. You’re just drunk.”

“So are you.”

“Yeah, but not enough not to care about fucking this up.”

Clarke sighs, deflating, and doesn’t make another move to pull him back in. She may be drunk but she’s not drunk enough to try to pressure him into anything he isn’t into. 

“Fine,” she says, short, and when he flinches she sighs. “No, you’re right. I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t apologise,” he chuckles, and kisses her once more, soft and quick. “I want to kiss you. So fucking much, seriously. And I promise I will later, along with whatever else you want.”

“Looking forward to it,” she says, breathy.

He cradles her face, eyes soft and swimming with something Clarke doesn’t want to define. 

“I want _you,_ Clarke. We won’t get a chance to really talk while we’re here, but,” he leans down, forehead resting against hers. “I miss you and I want you.” He kisses her again, slowly, like he’s pouring everything he can’t express in words into it and Clarke’s heart races. It soars and it swells and it feels like it could burst and she’s obviously too drunk to respond with anything intelligent so she just kisses him back.

***

“This feels familiar,” Clarke mutters bitterly when she wakes up, her head throbbing and the morning light pulsing hard behind her eyes. She glances to the side, finding Bellamy’s sleeping form faced down, an arm flung possessively over her bare stomach. It brings a small smile to her face, and she shuffles further towards him. 

She’s hungover and feels mostly awful, but Bellamy's like a little silver lining. He shifts beside her, rolling his head to glance up and smiles immediately. 

“Morning,” he says, rough, and she leans down to kiss him. 

“Morning,” she sighs happily, settling her head into the crook of his neck. “You should probably go.”

Bellamy groans, prompting a smile to tug at her lips. “I don’t wanna. I’ll just say that I went for a morning walk if anyone asks.”

“Good enough for me,” Clarke giggles, and Bellamy hums along her neck, his lips warm and slightly chapped against her skin. “But I need to have a shower.”  


“Yeah, you smell.”

Clarke scoffs, pulling back to glare and finding Bellamy wearing a teasing grin.

“Just for that, you can’t join me,” she says, poking her tongue out before hopping off the bed. She makes sure to sway her hips exaggeratedly as she saunters towards the bathroom, and can feel his heated gaze on her naked form. She doesn’t lock the door behind her, and before she’s even picked up her toothbrush he’s following her into the bathroom. He tries to kiss her, but she ducks away and grins smugly - punishment - as she begins brushing her teeth. 

She passes a spare one to him and he joins her, and they watch each other in the mirror, baring teeth with foamy mouths and pulling silly faces - all very domestic - until she’s trying not to choke on the toothpaste from laughing so much. As soon as they’re finished Bellamy crowds her against the bench, swooping down to steal a kiss, wet and messy as they grin into each other’s mouths. 

“Mmmm, minty,” he says against her lips, setting Clarke on another round of giggles as he pulls her off the bench and towards the shower. 

They strip quickly, walking into the stream of warm water as he sucks on her bottom lip, pulling a happy moan from her. He backs Clarke up against the glass wall of the shower, repositioning the shower head to make sure the water continues to hit them, and slides his hands to cup her breasts. He begins caressing them, hands large and warm against her soft skin, and plucks her nipples until they’re hard in his fingers. She moans, hands darting out to the shower caddy mounted on the wall to steady herself as his head ducks down, mouth descending to suck a nipple. He grazes his teeth against the hard pebble, tongue moving to lave the sensitive area as one of his hands crawls further down, reaching her already throbbing core. He moans against her breast when he feels her cunt already wet, the vibrations delicious and prompting a wave of heat to flush her body. 

Clarke bites her lip, holding back the sounds that are desperate to break free, and whimpers when Bellamy finds her clit. 

“You have to be quiet, baby,” he murmurs against her chest, moving his mouth to pay attention to her other breast. 

She nods, closing her eyes as he begins rubbing patterns into her sensitive nerves. She pulses with heat as he presses into her with more pressure, bucking her hips against his hand. He doesn’t tease her this time, and Clarke doesn’t know whether to be grateful or not - she loves the teasing, even though it kills her. She hikes a leg up to his hip, and he grasps the base of her thigh to steady her, open her up so she’s exposed to him. His other hand moves from her clit down to the inner lips of her pussy, fingers gathering her slick arousal before he slides two in. Clarke gasps at the feeling of Bellamy warm inside her, his fingers coaxing flashes of pressure as they move within her walls. Her breathing quickens as the heel of his palm presses back onto her clit, the stimulation in three separate areas getting her close to the edge quickly.

She’s unable to muffle the moan that’s begging to be released when his fingers crook within her, finding the sweet spot that sends fizzling sparks to the tips of her toes. He begins working more quickly, Clarke’s head rolling against the shower wall as the pressure builds, as her pussy begins to throb, hot around his fingers. He pulls back from her chest, blowing on her sensitive nipple with cool breath to make her shiver, before his mouth captures hers. They continue to kiss, lips hungry and tongue hot and wet, as he continues his ministrations, curling his fingers back and forth, rubbing tight circles into her clit until she’s trembling against him, coming. He draws out the waves of pleasure, swallowing her moans as she continues to writhe. When she finally breaks away, leaning her head lazily on his shoulder to catch her breath she feels his hard cock against her stomach. 

She reverses their positions when she's able to move again, pushing him back and kissing him soundly before she takes his hard length in her hand. It twitches as she begins stroking, already hot and throbbing in her palm, sparking another burst of desire within Clarke. She kneels in front of him, her tongue darting out to lick the tip and eliciting a throaty groan. The grin she offers Bellamy is close to feral, and she holds his gaze as she closes her lips and swirls her tongue around his head. She begins moving, taking his heavy length in her mouth and teasing his tip with quick licks. When he bucks his hips into her mouth she moans, moving an arm to brace him against the glass wall as his fingers grasp her wet hair. He guides her mouth over him, groans leaving his lips and hand tightening at the base of her curls whenever her throat tightens around his cock or she licks her way up the underside. 

“Clarke,” he chokes out when he tries to buck again, and she hums onto his length, hand moving to cup his balls. “I’m - fuck, I’m gonna come.”

She looks back up to him, eyes locked on his as she sucks with more intensity, hollowing out her cheeks as she slides her mouth further down his length. He curses, hand gripping almost painfully in her hair as his hips buck and he comes. His cock pulses in her mouth and she happily swallows everything he offers. When he stills, his length softening in her mouth, she slides her lips off and stands before him. She leans up to kiss him, letting him taste himself as she slides her tongue against his until he moans into her mouth. 

“Fuck, Clarke,” he breathes out, nosing her neck. “Fuck I want you. I - I fucking miss you and I miss _us_. I just - tell me this can happen.” He pulls back to look at her, his dark curls wet and water peppering his eyelashes. “Tell me you miss us, too.”

“Of course I do, Bell,” she whispers.

“Tell me I have a chance again.” 

“You always have a chance, Bellamy.”

***

“Where the hell have you been?” Jasper asks Clarke in lieu of greeting, glancing up at her with a frown.

She walks into the lounge room, finding everyone except Wells and Raven (not totally surprising) lazing around, suffering to varying degrees in their hungover states. She catches Bellamy’s eyes and he smirks — after their shower she snuck him out of her bedroom, agreeing (Clarke insisting) on a casual twenty minutes between each of them retreating to the lounge room — and she glares right back at him.

“It’s not even twelve,” she replies, kicking the boy in the arm where he lies on the floor.

“Yeah, but I’m hungry,” Jasper whines, looking at her with the puppy-dog eyes and pout she’s now immune to after almost five years of friendship. 

Clarke rolls her eyes, kicking him again for good measure before she slumps down on the couch. “And you expect me to cook for you?” She scoffs, pulling out a hand to begin counting off. “One, you’re a fucking adult and I’m not your maid, two, I’m a horrible cook, which you are well aware of, and three, I’m already letting you stay here. For free. Why don’t you cook _me_ something?”

“ _Because,_ ” he whines again, and Clarke throws a cushion at his face for being annoying.

“I’ll do it,” Bellamy offers, catching her eye and letting a smile break on his face, soft and private. She ducks her head to hide her own, feeling the familiar fluttering of her stomach.

Miller and Lincoln follow him to help, and it’s only half an hour later that they return with a feast of breakfast food - seriously, Bellamy is the _king_ of breakfast. As the smell of pancakes and eggs and bacon and toast begin to waft through the living room, Wells and Raven finally make it downstairs, and Clarke can’t even be bothered offering a snarky or teasing comment, too busy enjoying the food and pulling faces at Bellamy from across the room. 

Monty suggests beginning a _Star Wars_ marathon in preparation for the new film and everyone agrees easily, happy to spend the day with the least movement possible (they all drank ridiculously last night, and she doubts that anybody will be feeling any better until the evening). She’s able to subtly position herself next to Bellamy on one of the couches, and only ten minutes into _A New Hope_ she feels him slide a hand into hers, tentative. The lights in the room are dimmed, a blanket is covering their laps and all of their friends are already engrossed in the movie, and Clarke finds herself smiling. Because he’s worried that she might reject the offer, not because their friends could see, but because he thinks she might actually not want to hold his hand. She grasps it more surely, his thumb beginning to stroke hers, and she lets his presence lull her into a relaxed state for the afternoon. 

“Presents!” Octavia yells abruptly, startling everyone as the credits for _Return of the Jedi_ roll. They’re all half asleep, gorged on Thai takeout and lying lazily on each other, making no move to get up any time soon.

“What?” Jasper murmurs, blinking a few times sleepily.

“We need to give Clarke our presents!”

Clarke perks up at her name and the mention of gifts. “You guys got me presents?” She asks, swatting Bellamy’s leg under the blanket when he chuckles at her excitement. 

“Of course we did, idiot!” Octavia says, picking herself up from where she was curled into Lincoln’s side. “Everyone up!”

Clarke yawns, standing up with everyone else, and stretches until her back cracks. Bellamy grimaces next to her and she grins, nudging him with her hip until he rolls his eyes. She’s expecting him to follow everyone upstairs, but he stays by her side, and before Clarke gets a chance to tease him for not getting her a present he pulls an envelope from his back pocket and passes it over.

“Ooh, a card. My favourite,” she jokes, glancing up to find his eyes swimming with mirth. 

“Open it,” he says simply and Clarke narrows her eyes at him in suspicion, tearing the envelope before peaking inside. 

It’s holding a pile of what looks to be flashcards, and she frowns, eyeing his smirk as she pulls them out. She understands his expression when she reads what’s written on the first one: _1hr x me eating you out._

“Bellamy!” She squeaks, a warm flush rising on her cheeks quickly. He chuckles next to her, all amusement. “What the fuck!”

“They’re coupons, princess,” he grins, gesturing for her to continue reading them.

She flicks through the pile, finding a list of dirty things she’s trying hard not to think about with her friends just upstairs, that Bellamy promises to treat her to. Interspersed through those are a few sweeter ones: _1 x movie and dinner, 1hr x massage_ and _1 x breakfast in bed_ , and the smile that grows on her face feels ridiculous. It's most likely going to be her favourite gift of the evening.

“I really want to kiss you,” she says quietly, the sound of people returning downstairs cutting their time short. She wants to kiss him and hug him and thank him and maybe cash in one of the coupons, but instead she quickly takes his hand. 

“Later,” he promises, squeezing it once before letting go. 

They settle onto the floor next to each other, backs against the base of the couch, and Clarke lets her head roll along the seat as she tries to tamp down her smile. Everyone begins milling back into the lounge room with variously sized wrapped presents, and she opens them like a child - ripping the wrapping paper and squealing with each reveal. She receives an awesome bunch of gifts - art supplies and clothes and a new stereo and a bed set and a fucking _pie maker_ \- and she’s honestly feeling so incredibly grateful to have such wonderful friends.

“One more,” Octavia announces giddily, pulling a small wrapped box from where it was hidden in her lap and throwing it to Clarke with a grin. 

“Oooh,” Clarke coos, waggling her eyebrows at the girl and making her laugh. 

She hears Bellamy’s breath hitch from beside her, and when she looks up he’s glaring at Octavia. 

“ _O,_ ” he says, voice hard and not unlike a warning. 

“What?” Clarke asks, glancing between the two siblings, her smile falling as she takes in Bellamy’s quickly darkening expression. 

“Ignore him,” Octavia demands, glaring right back at her brother. “He’s just having a hissy fit because I know him well enough that I brought down the present he got for you when he wouldn't.”

“Oh-kay,” Clarke says slowly, catching Bellamy’s eyes and finding them pleading. She unwraps the present carefully this time, can feel how tense Bellamy becomes beside her, and it fills her with a sickening sense of dread. 

She can feel everyone’s eyes on her as the present is revealed - a small leather box - but she resolutely ignores them, instead focusing on what’s in front of her. A small sense of relief washes through her when she sees that the box isn’t containing - whatever the smallest and deepest part of her brain thought it could’ve, but it’s short lived. Because instead of the jewellery she was half expecting, it’s a watch. Not just any watch, but her father’s. 

She picks it up, the familiar weight resting in her palm as her thumb traces the face, the memories of what the small possession means to her quickly bringing tears to her eyes . Because she hasn’t seen this watch in over a year, and now it’s being handed to her as a gift, much in the same way her father did two days before his death. It had been his for over a decade, something small and seemingly unimportant that became Clarke's most prized possession for almost two years - grounding her, giving her strength - until she lost it. 

She swallows, her throat thick with her unshed tears as she remembers crying to sleep with the thoughts of her careless act. Bellamy’s arms wrapped around her, his words soothing and helping air back into her lungs. She’d lost the most important thing her father ever gave to her over a year ago, and apparently Bellamy’s had it in his possession for at least some of that time. The thought makes her feel sick, breath shaking and throat constricting and stomach gnawing on itself, because it’s something she can imagine he’d do. Just another part of the fucked up game they played - or apparently still play - with each other. 

Clarke stands without a word, feels everyone’s gaze on the back of her head as she walks out of the room. A hand catches her arm before she makes it to the stairs, and she’s not surprised to see Bellamy standing there, eyes once again pleading. 

“Clarke-”

“Is this a fucking joke?” She says, voice wavering only slightly. “Is this just part of the fucked up shit we’ve put each other through this past year?”  


“ _No_ ,” he insists. “Fuck, this is why I didn’t want you to open it like this.”

_“Why?”_ She exclaims, voice rising as she shrugs out of his grip. His expression is pained but she doesn’t care, because everything that’s just happened has pulled the oxygen from Clarke’s lungs and she can feel herself begin to fall apart. “How can you possibly explain that you’ve been keeping my father’s fucking watch from me, Bellamy? How could you do this to me? Even when we were awful to each other it wasn’t like this.” She blinks and hot tears begin to roll down her cheeks, because it’s not just this. It’s this and the unopened letter still sitting on her dresser and the fact that she’d let herself believe - _again_ \- that she and Bellamy could work this out. It’s the fact that she never imagined him capable of landing a blow this strong, something that cuts so deep that the exterior she’s built over the last year begins to crumble spectacularly. 

“Clarke, it’s not like-”

“Jesus, Bellamy,” she interrupts, wiping her face with harsh force. Everything is silent save for their voices and Clarke’s harsh breaths, and she can imagine all of their friends listening, shock written all over their faces. “Did you _ever_ even care about me?” She doesn’t mean to say it, because she can’t take back the vulnerability she’s revealing - the question she’s been wondering for so long - but as the wall crumbles so does her resolve. 

“Fuck,” Bellamy swears, a hand running through his curls. “Of course I fucking cared about you, Clarke. I fucking-” he lets out a shuddering breath, and his eyes close heavily. When he speaks next it’s low, an accusation, and Clarke suspects that the words are ones that have been on his own mind for a long time. “You’re the one who left, Clarke. You ended things in a fucking _text message_. Don’t say _shit_ about me not caring about you.”

“I texted you about two weeks after realising I was in love with you,” she tells him slowly, because it doesn’t matter now, does it? She watches as his eyes widen, as he begins searching her face for any tell that she’s lying - that this is just another one of their games. When he swallows, adam’s apple bobbing slowly, she knows he’s found none. “And I texted you the day after I found you about to fuck some other chick. So yes, I can wonder if you ever fucking cared about me.”

He steps back, as if her words have delivered physical blows, and instead of the vindictive sense of pride she hoped to feel, she just feels sick. Empty.

She takes one step onto the stairs, glancing into the room she’s just abandoned and finding expressions that’d make her think she just found out her father died all over again. She turns back to the man still standing a few feet from her, everything about his demeanour defeated and pained, and looks him right in the eye. It feels familiar.  


“Fuck you, Bellamy.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter of present day!!!!! (Will things work out??????) (Yes obviously this is a bellarke fic and I'm incapable of writing an unhappy ending but I'll just pretend that it might not anyway!!!!!!!!!)  
> So questions: how did you feel about Raven/Bellamy revelation cause I was tossing that up but decided to go for the angst. Dramatic revelation of bellarke to the group? Did you think the box was a ring cause it was completely unintentional but then i was like WAIT ima go with it for these two sentences. Also if you have any suggestions for my angst writing I would love to hear (in a nicely worded message pls i'm only human) because it was something I worried about this chapter!!!!  
> Hope you enjoyed, thanks for reading as always and comments/kudos are the loveliest!!!!


	6. 31.12/01.01

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: fuck word limits. SORRY!  
> Double sorry for taking forever to update; I have a long list of reasons and I swear it wasn't just laziness. I'm making it up to you with a solid dose of smut.  
> Thank you to everyone who commented last chapter, it was so fantastic to read and made me smile ridiculously!! (And to the new wave of people that seemed to read this story; I'm not sure where you came from but hello! And thank you for reading!)  
> Alright, let's get to it, I guess.  
> Hope you enjoy as always :)

_September through November, 2015._

_The gravel crunches beneath her feet as she trudges down the walkway, and Clarke shields herself from the cold by pulling her coat tighter. The leaves that will soon change colour and fall flap against their branches as the wind whistles around her, and her mind absently wanders to the paints she would need to capture the coming beauty. All deep reds and oranges and golds, like one final hurrah before winter claims them._

_She walks past the rows of headstones, can see bunches of once fresh flowers resting against slates of marble beginning to wither. The sight makes her huff out a laugh, something both horrible and darkly funny about the thing brought to mourn the dead beginning to die itself._

_Still, Clarke carries a bouquet of her own, and when she finds the grave she’s looking for, places the flowers against the headstone. She lays a mat on the ground and sits down, pulling a bottle of stout from her bag. It’s cold and windy and she’s never particularly enjoyed the drink, but they were her father’s favourite and she’s feeling sentimental. She sucks it up and twists off the cap._

_“Hey, Dad,” she tells the open air. “It’s Clarke.” She clinks the tip of the bottle against the headstone as some sort of toast before taking a pull. She blanches, eyeing the drink in disgust before she rolls her eyes at the headstone, at the_ **_Jake Griffin_ ** _written upon it. “I’ll never understand how you liked these,” she says, fond._

_Clarke’s never been one to believe in anything equating to life after death; anything that would offer her comfort or make the passing of a loved one easier. But it’s the anniversary of her father’s death and she needs that comfort, that hope. Hope that he could somehow hear the words she speaks, hope that he could somehow see her as she continues to live her life without his love and guidance and support, hope that he could feel how much her heart can still ache from missing him, but that she’s doing okay._

_“You’ve been gone three years today,” she tells him, heart heavy in her chest. Tears begin prickling her eyes despite her efforts to keep them at bay. “And I keep thinking about this conversation we had a few weeks before you died. When you told me that I wouldn’t be sad forever and that I couldn't dwell on your death, that I had to keep living my own life.” She pauses, a small rueful smile playing on her lips. “God, I was so angry at you,” she huffs out a laugh, wiping at the hot tears that start rolling down her cheeks. “But I couldn’t yell at you because you were weak and sad but still looking at me like my happiness was the only damn thing that mattered in the whole world. And I just wanted to scream at you because you were the one that was leaving_ me _and I wasn’t ready to have to survive without you. It wasn’t fair.”_

_Her eyes return to the epitaph:_ **_Jake Griffin / 14.05.1963-28.09.2012 / Always loved, never forgotten / May we meet again_ ** _and a shiver rolls through her whole body. It’s not fair, and it will never be, but -_

_“But I get it now. And I thought I should let you know that I have kept on living my life. And I’m okay most of the time. Honestly, I am. But I don’t always have to be okay, do I? Not on your anniversary?” She asks, shaking hands moving to wipe her eyes again. There’s no response, not that she was expecting one; she’s alone in a fucking cemetery and her father is_ dead. _“I just miss you.” She says, voice watery, air leaving her chest heavily. “And I miss how Mum used to be when you were together.” It’d be easier with her here, but they rarely see eye to eye on anything these days, and she didn’t want to risk a fight today. “And I’m angry at her for not saving your life and I’m angry at you for getting sick in the first place and I’m angry at Bellamy because I keep thinking about how I loved him and that this time last year I was just about to realise that he didn’t love me back, but I should only be thinking about you today because you’re my fucking dad and you’re dead and you at least deserve that, and I’m angry at myself because it’s been three years and I’m trying to show you that I’m okay and I am but sometimes even after all this time I see something and want to text you and then I remember that you’re gone and it’s like having you die all over again.” She finishes her tearful ramble, taking a deep, shuddering breath, and downs the rest of her drink._

_She folds her arms around herself and lets her mind begin to wander, all the things her father should’ve been there for flashing in her head. Her twenty first birthday, only three months after his death, which was spent crying with Wells instead of laughing with her father, humouring each other that the drink they toast to is definitely her first at a bar. The decision to change from pre-med to digital art, something she knows he would’ve wholly supported, prompting Clarke to ignore expectations and follow her heart. Her final folio - which she spent weeks of minimal sleep and excess amounts of coffee finishing - being proudly_ _displayed on the crisp walls of a gallery at her university. The entire ordeal with Finn, where she can imagine him offering to punch the boy in the face as a joke to cheer her up, even though there’d probably be some truth in his desire to do so._

_She wonders how he’d feel about Bellamy. Obviously not pleased that he broke his daughter’s heart, but if that hadn’t have happened she can imagine the two men getting along. It’s something that sends her mind spinning, and she quickly moves on. The fact that this day is already tarnished by Bellamy is bad enough; she doesn’t want to let herself wonder what a better, brighter future could’ve held._

_Her mind turns to the things her father will miss in the years to come. Clarke finding someone who will love her in the same way she loves them. Her father giving them a hard time for all of five minutes before a grin breaks out on his face and he offers them a drink. Walking her down the aisle, even though it’s a sexist and antiquated tradition, and giving what she can imagine would be a speech that’d make her laugh and cry in equal measures. Gasping over Clarke’s first sonogram and placing it on his fridge with magnets that spell out_ BABY _or something equally ridiculous, maybe beginning a scrapbook or organising a baby shower. Holding his grandchild for the first time and tearing up when he sees his own eyes reflected in the baby’s; the same ones he passed down to Clarke._

_They’re things that she’s come to accept in the three years that have passed, but it’s the anniversary of his death and they hurt all the same. She doesn’t have to be okay today._

_It’s another hour before she leaves, not speaking a word until she parts with “may we meet again”_. _She takes herself to a bar, responding to each of her friends’ messages with an affirmation that she’s okay but doesn’t want company, and begins toying with her phone and debating her next move two drinks later. She doesn’t want to see her friends; can’t handle the pitying looks or worried glances because it’s been three years and it shouldn’t hurt as much as it still sometimes does, but she does want company. And she knows what kind._

_It’s stupid and there’s a chance she’ll regret it later, but it’s not later now and right now all she wants is to keep herself from falling apart. She opens her messages and sends a text that’s still familiar despite the year that has passed._

_C: Are you home right now?_

_It’s ten minutes before she receives a response, and Clarke can almost_ hear _the hesitance and confusion in his tone. They don’t text all that much these days._

_B: Yes…_

_C: Are you alone?_

_The ellipses come and go five times before —_

_B: Yes._

_She orders herself a shot for courage._

_C: Can I come over?_

_B: I don’t know whether you’re being serious or not._

_C: I’ll let you fuck me however you like. Serious enough for you?_

_B: Fuck._

_C: I’m taking that as a yes. I’ll be there in fifteen._

_B: Can’t wait._

_She makes it in ten, and doesn’t give either of them a chance to make it awkward before she steps up to him and slips her tongue in his mouth. He moans into the kiss, and they stumble to his bedroom, quickly undressing as they go. It’s quick, fumbling hands as they unbutton shirts and tug down jeans, and Clarke can’t help but wonder whether Bellamy’s missed this as much as she has._

_“Hey,” Bellamy says, soft, once they’ve stripped down to their underwear. There’s a gleam in his eyes she doesn’t want to define as he cradles her face, gentle hands like she might break. He pulls her in for another kiss, slower and more tender, and she wants it. God, does she want it, but that’s not why she’s here, and she can’t let herself hope that this could be more than it is. So she bites down on his bottom lip, eliciting a throaty moan, and shifts backwards to look at him. Her eyes must convince Bellamy of something, because there’s a look of understanding in his gaze when he leans back in, the next kiss hot and wet and just what she needs._

_It’s fast after that, Clarke pushing him back on the bed and crawling over to sit in his lap. She rocks against him, can feel how he twitches against her, and she pulses with desire._

_“Fuck, Clarke,” he breathes her lips, and yeah, she agrees with that sentiment entirely._

_They rid themselves of their underwear, Bellamy’s hungry gaze tracing her like she’s the best damn thing on earth when she’s bare to him. He moves his arm around her waist and she lets out a squeak of surprise when he flips them over. His lips move to trail across her jaw and neck, and the arousal at Clarke’s centre gathers. When he begins peppering kisses and teasing bites down her body she moves a hand to his hair and tugs._

_He raises his gaze, a teasing smile pulling on his lips, and she shakes her head._

_“You seriously don’t want me to go down on you?” He asks, arching an eyebrow and sounding a little incredulous._

_“No,” she shakes her head again, tugging him back up. “I want more. I need more. I need-” she falters. You. “Just no.”_

_His eyes soften, the dark depths of them making Clarke squirm, and he nods. It’s too much, and she feels her resolve falter as she catches a look in his eyes she recognises from their time before. So she pushes Bellamy off of her and flips over to get on her hands and knees. He all but growls, hands moving to her hips and sliding down to squeeze her ass for a moment before he shifts away._

_He finds a condom in his bedside table and she watches as he rolls it on. It’s familiar after that; feeling him slide into her, filling her up slowly and letting her adjust to his size, groaning once he’s buried within._

_“You good?” He asks, hoarse, and Clarke nods, not trusting herself to speak._

_His hands settle on her hips and he starts moving into her, deep and slow, but not enough for what she needs. She pushes against him, one hand moving to the headboard to brace herself as she meets his thrusts, urging him to speed up. He allows her to, and soon she gets what she wanted; the slap of their bodies against each other, the sparks of electricity each time he hits that sweet spot, the rough grip of his hands on her skin._

_It doesn’t take long for the pressure to build, and soon she’s moaning out a silent cry, trembling beneath him as white pleasure rolls through her. Bellamy follows her a few thrusts later, a broken grunt parting his lips and ghosting over the still hot skin of her back. He kisses her back sloppily and a small whimper escapes Clarke’s mouth when he pulls out._

_She slumps down onto her stomach, boneless, and Bellamy takes care of the condom before falling half on top of her, half on the bed. They lay together, catching their breaths and letting the sweat covering their skin dry in silence. He begins carding a hand through her hair, light and gentle, and Clarke tries to ignore the fact that despite the day, and despite everything that’s happened between them, having Bellamy with her like this still feels like something close to home._

_***_

_“Clarke, open the fucking door,” Bellamy shouts, pounding on the front door of her apartment urgently._

_Clarke worries her lip from her position on the couch, not sure whether she wants to face him again today. She left his place three hours ago, when his voice became too soft and his hands too gentle, making it feel way too safe to let herself fall apart. From the sound of him outside, that’s not something she has to worry about now, but she’s still not sure she’s ready to see him._

_But the hammering continues and she doesn’t feel like dealing with any angry neighbours, so after a few more moments of consideration she rushes to answer the door._

_“Jesus, what?” She asks, opening it and getting all but trampled as Bellamy shoves past her._

_Clarke follows him into her apartment, alarmed, and takes his phone when he practically throws it at her. There’s a text from Octavia._

_O: Hey, don’t be a dick to Clarke at Monty and Miller’s tomorrow. Her dad died three years ago today and she’s pretty upset._

_“This is why you came over,” he accuses, snatching his phone back and shoving it in his pocket._

_“Yes.” She folds her arms around herself and bites the insides of her cheeks to stop the tears from coming._

_“Jesus fucking christ,” he mutters, dropping his head and shaking it. When he looks back up his eyes are shuttered and his jaw clenched. “Can I ask you this: was it screwing me or screwing with me that made you feel better?”_

_“Bellamy-”_

_“Or was it all a game to make you feel in control?”_

_She takes a breath. “No.”_

_“Right,” Bellamy scoffs. “So you're just making me the asshole who takes advantage.”_

_“The first time we met you fucked me because I was angry and upset,” she tells him, voice hard. “You didn’t feel that way then and you don’t have to now.”_

_“Hey!” He warns, rounding on her in a second. “That was fucking different and you know it.”_

_“How?” She asks, incredulous. “How the fuck was that any different?”_

_“Because I’ve changed since then, Clarke!” He yells, grasps her shoulders with a gentleness that mirrors his next words. “Because we’ve changed since then.”_

_She swallows, thick, and feels her heart drop in her chest. “I’m sorry.”_

_He shakes his head again, eyeing her with something like disillusion, and it breaks her heart._

_His hands drop from her and he walks away. “This thing we have, Clarke?” He says just before he reaches the door. “It’s done. I’m done.”_ _He doesn’t slam it and somehow that’s worse._

_She doesn’t have the energy to stop the tears this time._

_***_

_“I think we should break up.”_

_Clarke looks up with raised eyebrows, her mouth full with muesli and yoghurt, allowing her some time to process the words before she has to respond. She’s surprised for two reasons, really. The first is that she hadn’t really considered what she and Lexa were doing as dating - she thought they were still at the pre-dating stage with lots of flirting and kissing. They’d only slept together three times so far. The second is that, even though it’s only been five weeks, she thought they were good._

_“What?” She asks around her spoon._

_Lexa sighs, as though Clarke’s being purposefully unhelpful, and sits down across from her at the dining table._

_“Look, Clarke, I like you, but I’m not interested in being with someone who’s held up on someone else.”_

_Clarke sputters, choking on her food for a moment and having to skull some juice to help it down her throat before finally getting out an ungraceful “what!?”_

_Lexa sighs again. “Bellamy?”_

_“I am_ not _held up on Bellamy, Lexa,” she tells the girl, the words tasting wrong and bitter in her mouth._

_“Clarke, please,” she says, in that condescending tone that Clarke’s come to realise colours a lot of Lexa’s words. “I’ve heard that boy’s name more times in the past two weeks than I have any of your other friends’ in the months I’ve known you. You care about him.”_

_Clarke frowns, eyes darting away from Lexa’s piercing gaze to look into her bowl instead. They met at a party a few months ago, finding common ground when they realised they both knew Lincoln and were interested in art. They talked, flirted a little, and Clarke probably would’ve asked for her number if Scruffy hadn’t shown up prompting her and Raven to make a quick exit. They’d seen each other around a few times since, always continuing where they left off easily, but it hadn’t lead anywhere until five weeks ago, when they bumped into each other at a club._

_It was about two weeks after she’d slept and subsequently fought with Bellamy, and they hadn’t spoken. At all. Not one single word exchanged. It hurt more than it probably should’ve, seeing as most of their words were sniping anyway, but she had definitely felt the loss. And the guilt. Their friends ignored it in the way they usually did, and insisted on going to a club despite the obvious tension. Which was where she saw him in a dark corner, lips trailing down another girl’s neck. And it was fine; she wasn’t jealous, because he wasn’t hers, and he never had been, and since that night she definitely couldn’t judge. But it was the first time she’d actually seen him kiss anyone since that night in his kitchen, and she felt something within her sink at the sight. She wasn’t really sure what to do after that, but when she bumped into Lexa an hour or so later, the girl seemed to be the right answer. And sure, it might’ve started out in a way Clarke wasn’t exactly proud of, but in the following weeks she found that she actually liked Lexa, and that Lexa liked her in return. Which is why she’s currently a bit confused._

_“He’s my friend,” she tells Lexa after a silence that is too long not to be telling. “Of course I care about him.”_

_“Clarke,” she sighs. “You care about his relationship status. I’d say that’s more than just caring about another friend.”_

_Clarke opens her mouth to respond, but even with the number of protests whirling through her head, nothing comes out. She snaps it closed and takes in Lexa’s words, finding that although she hates to admit it, they’re true._

_He brought Club Girl to the group’s monthly games night two weeks ago, introducing her as Echo and not-so-subtly dodging the questions asking for labels. And Clarke was cool with it, really, she was. Except for the part where introducing potential significant others at games nights had been explicitly banned. (After the disaster that was Wells bringing Mel, the gang had agreed that the evenings were too intense, and nobody wanted to tamp down their competitive nature just to seem relatively normal to newcomers.)_

_And of course Bellamy was more than welcome to introduce whomever he wanted to the group, but he definitely wasn’t allowed to at games night. It had nothing to do with the fact that they still weren’t speaking, and that the first time he had said her name in over a month was when he was introducing her to his not-quite-girlfriend. Which is exactly what Clarke had told Lexa when they met up the next day, going on a small tangent about his complete lack of respect for anyone but his stupid self. She might’ve mentioned a few more things about him and his new relationship since - probably in a tone that suggested she wasn’t exactly happy and using a few choice words just to emphasise it - but it’s not like she could say anything to her other friends, so Lexa was her go-to for ranting. Which Clarke definitely hadn’t realised, and okay, in hindsight, it was an entirely bad idea._

_So can she blame Lexa for reading into it? Not exactly._

_“Look,” Lexa says when it’s clear Clarke isn’t going to respond. “If you tell me that you two don’t have some sort of history, that I’ve completely misread the way you feel for him, then I’ll believe you. But can you tell me that?”_

_Clarke finally looks up, finding that Lexa’s not looking at her with anger, maybe instead something closer to pity._

_“No,” Clarke whispers, feels herself shiver at the admission. No because they do have history. No because Lexa hasn’t completely misread Clarke’s feelings. No because she cannot tell the girl otherwise._

_“Okay, then I think I should leave.” She stands, and Clarke realises that she’s already gathered her things from the previous night._

_“I’m sorry, Lexa.”_

_Lexa softens, her smile kinder than Clarke’s used to. “It’s okay, Clarke. I wish you luck.”_

_“Thanks.”_

_***_

_“Lexa and I broke up,” Clarke announces to her friends that night at the bar. She plops herself onto a chair at their table and is met with words of comfort and offers of alcohol, which is pretty standard. She’s doing alright, actually; mostly just reeling from her earlier admission._

_“You okay?” Bellamy asks a few hours later, when she’s ordering another round at the bar. They’re the first words he’s said directly to her in almost two months, and she isn’t surprised that he broke the silence to ask how she was._

_“Yeah,” she smiles, handing the bartender a few notes. “It was only five weeks, right?” She says, belatedly realising that six weeks was all it took with Bellamy. His eyes dart away and she wonders if he’s thinking something similar._

_“Good. I’m glad,” he tells her, and picks up two of the jugs on the bar counter._

_“Bellamy, wait,” she calls, because she_ does _care about him and she’s hurt him. He’s hurt her too, but this feels different, and she wants to at least try to make it right. He turns around and his eyes bore into her own. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put you in a position you weren’t comfortable with and it was unfair of me to only think about myself.”_

_Bellamy nods, places the two jugs back down. “Why'd you do it?”_

_“Honestly?” He nods, and she thinks that she owes him at least this. “I just wanted to feel like I wasn’t falling apart, and you, you’re-” she falters, lets out a deep breath. She owes him at least this. “Familiar. Comforting.”She shrugs, offers a smile that she’s sure is a little hopeless._

_He returns one, and it’s kind, making her feel better than she really has since it all happened._

_“Okay. It’s okay. I guess I just thought - it doesn’t matter.” He shakes his head, expression shifting to sheepish. “I’m sorry for, uh, being a bit of a dick to you these past few weeks.”_

_Clarke shrugs. “When aren’t we dicks to each other?”_

_He huffs out a laugh, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”_

_They grab the drinks and make their way to the table._

_“And Bellamy? This thing we have?” She worries her lip, chancing a glance at him and finding his eyes already on her. “I’m not done.”_

_She watches as he raises his eyebrows, the small smile that tugs on his lips, and breathes out a sigh of relief. He doesn’t have a chance to respond before they reach to their friends, but he does slide into the seat next to her._

_Bellamy and Echo break up three days later._

\--- --- ---

It’s dark when she wakes, the kind of darkness that tells Clarke it’s still the middle of the night, only the pale glow of the moon and stars offering light outside. The rain has started again and it’s pattering against the roof heavily, forming patterned trails along the glass of the window. It’s calming; the sound of a storm rolling in, promising to leave the earth around lush and green and wet. 

She stretches in her bed, the warm blankets she’s encased in constricting much of her movement, and blinks away the sleep in her eyes. Her body hums drowsily, taking comfort in the safety of her bed, but shealready notices the tense set to her muscles. It’s there - of course it’s there, it’s not like she’d forget - but she still feels a shift when the memories of last night pour into the forefront of her mind. The low rumble of thunder rolls through the air and a familiar uneasiness settles in her body. It feels fitting.

Last night was bad; alone in her bedroom and feeling the weight of two years’ worth of _everything_ pressing heavily on her chest. Because while she can’t deny the sense of relief that came with finally letting out the truth, there was no resolution to it. And now everything is exposed, her old wounds open and raw once more, and she can’t even hold onto the satisfaction that at least she has closure. She doesn’t; all she has is more fucking heartbreak and a list of questions she’s not sure she even wants the answers to.

She’s not pining and she doesn’t love him. A week ago she would’ve sworn by that, and a week ago it was probably true. She wasn’t and she didn’t, but that was hardly a problem. If the past has taught Clarke anything it’s that she’s never had much difficulty getting sucked into Bellamy Blake. Falling hard and fast and reckless. She’s already done it; six weeks was all it took to love and be left bare and broken hearted. And now she’s done it again, the foundation already built so she could climb, climb, climb and get ready to fall. She warned herself against it, mind warring heart and both losing when she found that feeling again (if she’s being honest with herself it never really left), and was broken by it again.

_Pathetic,_ her mind chastises. Not broken, just a little wounded. 

But wounds can heal and so will she. 

***

Clarke heaves a frustrated sigh, eyeing the page in front of her before ripping it out and scrunching it up. She throws it somewhere on the floor, and it joins the previous fifteen pages that have experienced similar fates. Nothing has been helping; nothing has felt _right._

It had been easier last night. The minutes had gone by alone in her bedroom and the emptiness she felt made way for sparks of hot anger as she stared at the watch in the palm of her hand, as she found the unopened letter sitting on her bedside table. She knew what to do with that, and last night it was harsh strokes of blacks and reds and greys, hot tears of anger and frustration falling onto the pages and staining them. It didn’t exactly make her feel better, but it at least helped her fall into a restless sleep. 

But since waking over an hour ago she hasn’t been able to drift off again, her heart resting heavily in her chest and her mind racing with intrusive thoughts. Everything she’s been putting onto a page is coming out _wrong,_ and it’s becoming increasingly frustrating not being able to find something that feels right _._ She takes a deep breath, rolls out the tense set of her shoulders, and ditches the pastels for a pencil this time, letting her hand roam freely on the page while her mind plays catch up. 

She’s not exactly surprised that the outline of his face appears, and finds herself grasping to how her heart relaxes as she continues to draw. It flashes through her mind; the memory of him last night and the devastation written across his face. She pulls it to the forefront of her mind and tries to compartmentalise enough to see him through her eye as an artist, but it’s all in vain. 

Because she’s kissed the length of his jaw, just light and teasing from the dimple in his chin up to the pulse point behind his ear. Because she knows that if she stays there, lets her teeth nibble and her tongue lave, a shiver will roll through his shoulders and a breathy sigh will part his lips. Because he spends so much of his time with furrowed brows, always concerned about one thing or another, and she remembers how she used to press her thumb into the crease right above his nose, stroking until the tension left his face and he melted into her touch. Because his eyes are so goddamn emotive when he allows them to be, expressing everything he can’t put into words in one simple look, but she knows how quickly he can shutter them off. Because she’ll never be able to forget how they crinkled when he’d trace her face, the gleam in them she could’ve sworn was something like love; as though he was capturing her in the moment to hold onto forever. Because she knows how much he loves her fingers running through his wild locks, the light scrape of her nails against his scalp that will leave him with a content smile or dark eyes depending on the time of day. Because he once confessed that he hated his freckles as a child, and it broke her heart. Because she’d told him that they reminded her of the stars that dance the night sky, and she couldn’t help but pepper kisses all over them, along his cheeks and nose and forehead and chin, because she never wanted him to think they were anything but beautiful. Because she knows how his smile feels under the palm of her hand, how one side of his mouth is always slightly higher than the other. Because the small scar above it is one he got from a fistfight in high school, and he’d once told her it was like his own version of her beauty spot. Because his lips have trailed every inch of her body, tongue parting them to taste her skin and her lips and her arousal. Because she’s pressed her own against them hundreds of time, has traced them with her tongue and nibbled them with her teeth and whispered secrets against them in the dark of night. 

Because every part of him holds so many memories, and she’s confused and she’s upset and she’s angry and she’s tired and she doesn’t have the energy to pretend that she doesn’t love him; that even now she hates him. 

She doesn’t and she couldn’t, and it makes her feel vulnerable, so she lets herself get lost in the drawing, her heart continuing to relax as she pours everything into it. The time goes by, the light press of her pencil to get the proportions right before her strokes become more sure, starting with his brows, the outline of his eyes and nose. 

Just as she’s getting to his lips, slightly parted and downturned, the lighting in the room shifts. She glances up and sees Raven moving into her bedroom, steps unsure and expression hesitant. Clarke smiles, hopes that it’s kind, and sets her pencil and sketchbook on her lap. She shuffles across on the bed, and holds up the blankets for Raven to slide in next to her. She seems to relax a little with the gesture, and Clarke’s glad.

She pulls out one of Clarke’s headphones and places it in her own ear. She’s been listening to Billy Joel, because he was one of her dad’s favourites and she’s feeling a bit masochistic. She can imagine her father’s laugh, how he would roll his eyes whenever she’d do this as a teenager, offering a teasing comment like _what’s the point of being upset if you don’t have the right soundtrack for it?_ and Clarke would have to scowl to keep herself from smiling. It makes her smile now, and she leans her head against Raven’s shoulder, letting them sit together and listen to the music in silence. She gets it; that this is hard for her friend too, and that she’ll need time before she feels comfortable bringing up the obvious elephant in the room. 

“You never said anything,” Raven says a few songs later. It doesn’t sound like an accusation, more so that she’s just curious. She shifts to face Clarke properly and takes out their headphones, which already feels like a lot. Raven rarely tries to have serious conversations, and when she does, it’s usually with the encouragement of alcohol or Norah Jones. Clarke straightens, returning her friend’s gaze and finding her expression soft, remorseful. 

“I know.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Clarke shrugs, her free hand absently moving to trace the outline of Bellamy’s face on the sketchbook still sitting in her lap. Thankfully Raven doesn’t comment. 

“I was embarrassed,” Clarke decides on after a minute. It’s true. She was embarrassed, humiliated even. “I fell in love with him and I thought he loved me back, but-” she falters, doesn’t want to say the words even now. She clears her throat, and Raven takes her hand. “But he didn’t. I honestly never thought I’d see him again.”

“But then Monty and Miller met.”

“Yep.”

“And you found out I slept with Bellamy at that Halloween party.”

Clarke smiles sadly. “Pretty much.”

“Clarke,” she exhales, shaking her head. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, I don’t even know what to say.”

“Rave, you don’t have to do this,” Clarke tells her. She’s never blamed her friend, and hates that everything that’s happened is causing her pain as well. “Look, I’m not going to tell you that it didn’t hurt, because it did.” Raven nods and Clarke squeezes her hand. “But it was over a year ago, and I’m okay. It wasn’t your fault and it wasn’t Bellamy’s fault. It was just - a shitty situation, really.”

“But-”

“Raven, _please_. You don’t have to punish yourself over this. You did nothing wrong and I don’t blame you. I’ve never blamed you. You’re one of my best friends and I love you. Nothing will change that and _this_ certainly doesn’t. You got it?” She says, teasingly stern.

“Yeah, I got it,” Raven chuckles, but her expression is sad, and Clarke needs her to understand.

“Raven, this thing with Bellamy and I? We didn’t fall apart because of you.” 

Raven nods, and Clarke’s sure that’s as much acceptance as she’s going to get today. “You still should’ve told me about it. I would’ve kicked his ass for you.”

Clarke grins. “I’m sure you would’ve.” Her smile softens and she picks up her pencil again, continues shaping Bellamy’s lips. “I didn’t want you guys to find out because I didn’t want Bellamy to know that he’d hurt me. He didn’t cheat on me or do anything wrong, really, I just read things between us wrong.”

“Did you?”

She looks up from her sketchbook. “Yes. I caught him kissing someone else.”

“Sometimes guys are just idiots, Clarke.”

“You don’t have to defend him, Raven.”

“I’m not trying to, I’m just-” she huffs out a breath. “I wasn’t the only one trying to get over someone when we hooked up. He was upset, Clarke, and I’ll bet you anything that it was about you.”

“Look, can we just - not do this please?” Clarke asks, biting the insides of her cheeks when she feels tears coming. “It’s not just that, Rave. I remember that Halloween party. I remember Monty telling me his boyfriend _Nate_ had a roommate who slept around a lot. It’s - that’s what I was to him, okay? We were friends, I know that, but it wasn’t romantic for him. He didn’t care about me like that.”

Clarke looks back to her sketchbook and continues to draw. She can feel Raven studying her, and it’s unnerving; having her best friend watching her now that it’s all been revealed. Still, she doesn’t know everything; she might know when it started, how it ended, but she doesn’t know everything in between. She might know but she doesn’t _know_ , and Clarke’s not sure she can handle any other comforts her friend tries to offer, so she doesn’t give her the chance. 

“So, how was everyone after I left?”

She glances up to Raven and the girl smiles knowingly. “Pretty shocked,” she says, and Clarke’s thankful that her friend will at least give her this.

“Yeah, I can imagine.”

“Miller explained everything when it was clear Bellamy wasn’t going to.”

“How was he? Bellamy, I mean,” Clarke asks in a whisper, eyes trained on her version of his lips, trying to get the shading right.

Raven takes the pencil from her hand and Clarke doesn’t resist. She looks up and Raven smiles, kind, and takes her hands.

“He was pretty wrecked,” she starts, soft. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so defeated, actually. O seemed to be gearing up to yell at him, but as soon as you left he turned around and his expression-” she sighs, shaking her head. “She just wrapped her arms around him instead. He was devastated, Clarke. He didn’t say anything, even as Miller was talking, and when Miller finished he just stood up, grabbed his keys, and left without a word.”

Clarke’s heart stutters in its rhythm, and she straightens. “What do you mean he left?”

Raven frowns. “I mean he left. Didn’t you hear the door?”

“No,” Clarke says, shaking her head. She’s already throwing her sketchbook aside and pulling the blankets away. “I - I was listening to music. Is he going back to the city?” She gets out of bed, a mixture of worry and anger twisting her stomach and making her heart race. “Fucking asshole,” she mutters under her breath, walking towards her dresser.

“I assume so,” Raven responds, concerned. She follows Clarke and grasps her forearm, halting her search for a sweater. “Clarke-”

“He fucking left? Seriously?” She shrugs out of Raven’s grasp to continue her search, letting out a harsh breath when she finds one of Bellamy’s jumpers. She’s not even sure how it got in there, but she throws it on the ground and grabs a different one. “He can’t just _leave,_ Raven.” She stares at the girl, gaze fierce. “That’s not fucking fair. He isn’t allowed to just run away.”

“I don’t think that’s what he was doing, Clarke.”

“I don’t care!” She exclaims, tugging on a pair of boots and pulling on the jumper. She tries to take a few deep breaths to calm down, but each passing second finds her worry being replaced with anger. _Coward_ , she thinks harshly, running a hand over her face in frustration before she grabs her wallet, phone and keys. “He doesn’t even have the fucking decency to let me be angry at him while he’s here.” 

She storms out of her bedroom, dressed in her pyjamas, a knit sweater and docs, with Raven hot on her heels. Her footsteps are loud as she races down the stairs, and it’s no surprise that Octavia finds her and Raven in the kitchen a few minutes later, Clarke making herself some coffee to go.

“What’re you doing?” Octavia asks, tone coloured annoyed and sleepy. 

“Making myself coffee.”

“Why?”

“Because apparently she thinks it’s a good idea to drive two hours just to go yell at your brother.”

“ _She_ is right here,” Clarke huffs as she pours the coffee into a travel mug. She’s pretty sure her anger and frustration will get her through the drive back to the city, but it’s probably safer to take some. “And she is leaving.”

“Hey!” Octavia says, voice fierce as she grabs Clarke’s arm. Clarke halts as she takes in Octavia’s expression; torn and unsure. “I don’t want to have to choose between my best friend and my brother, Clarke. So do whatever you need to do to work it out. Just - work it out. Please.”

Clarke deflates slightly and nods, pulling Octavia into a hug. “I will. I’m sorry, O.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she replies, pulling away to look at Clarke seriously. “My brother is a fucking asshole when he wants to be, I know that, but - but he’s still my brother.”

“I understand.”

“Good.” She nods and lets Clarke pass, following her to the front of the house. “Here,” Octavia says, fishing her keys out from the small table sitting next to the front door. She removes two keys from the set and hands them to Clarke. “Building. Apartment. In case he doesn’t answer.”

“Thanks, O.”

Octavia smiles. “Just be careful driving. It’s still raining pretty hard outside.”

“And make sure you text us when you get in,” Raven adds.

“I will,” Clarke nods, pulling the two girls in for a quick hug. “I’m sorry for fucking up the trip. I’ll be back tomorrow, okay?” She glances down to her phone, finding that it’s just past five in the morning. “Well, later today,” she amends. “There’s no way I’m not reeling in the New Year with you two.”

“You fucking better be,” Raven smiles, and hands over a rain jacket. 

“And Clarke?” Octavia says softly as her hand reaches for the doorknob. “I know that you’re angry and upset, and I’m not going to tell you that you can’t be, but just - don’t bite his head off straight away. You didn’t see him, but he was really upset. He cares about you, I know he does. Remember that.”

Clarke huffs out a breath, closing her eyes heavily. It’s not her friends’ fault that they just don’t understand, so she bites back a harsh comment the anger within her is begging her to release, and instead nods once. She offers a tight smile before pulling open the front door and making a run for her car.

***

He’s already awake when she arrives, leaning against the kitchen counter and holding onto a cup of coffee like it’s a lifeline. He’s tired. She can see it in his eyes when they find hers, the bruising underneath them that she’s sure to be mirroring. But he doesn’t look surprised as he takes her in - no wide eyes or parted lips or raised eyebrows - and Clarke wonders whether he was expecting her. Maybe he’s just able to read her that well after all this time.

She walks further into his apartment, passing the living room until she’s just a few feet away from him, only the kitchen counter separating them. She’s restless; two hours spent with anger simmering away uncomfortably, not able to bubble over and find release in cruel words spat and screamed. 

Last night she didn’t know whether that was the kind of release she wanted. Part of her had hoped that Bellamy would knock on her bedroom door and giver her the satisfaction of screaming until her voice went hoarse. The other part hoped that he’d come offering apologies, just so she could ignore them and disregard him entirely. She may’ve been conflicted, but the choice was hers and she felt she at least deserved that after everything he’d done. Bellamy leaving took that _one_ thing away from her, and it definitely pushed her to the kind of anger that had to be channeled; that couldn’t be ignored.

And now she needs that. Needs _something_. Something _more_ than Bellamy standing opposite her, his expression schooled into a mask, cool and collected. There’s a time she would’ve said she could see through it; pick out the cracks and find the Bellamy shining through, but now she’s not sure. Because her belief that she could read him, could read the small gestures and the kind words, has done nothing but hurt her. 

And with every passing second of Bellamy just _standing_ there, expression controlled while Clarke feels anything but, she’s pushed further and further to the edge of her anger.

“You’re a fucking asshole, you know that?” Clarke finally spits, breaking the silence cloaking the room. She folds her arms across her chest, feels the sense of satisfaction she was looking for last night when he flinches slightly, mask faltering. Because it’s been over a year of hiding from the truth and hiding from him, and all of a sudden she can’t handle the silence any longer. It was self-preservation back then, and she can’t blame herself for it, but the part of her that has always wanted to know why, has always wanted to fight about something _real_ for once, has won out and is demanding answers.

Bellamy sighs, dropping the act entirely, and runs a hand through his hair. He just looks sad and tired now, which Clarke doesn’treally think he has the right to feel. He moves to pour another cup of coffee and makes it just the way she likes. He slides it over to her and Clarke frowns, pushing it away adamantly.

“Drink the fucking coffee, Clarke,” Bellamy says, weary.

“Fuck you.”

“Fine then. Don’t,” he sighs, and she wants to scream because she _hates_ this Bellamy; the one that doesn’t even fight back. He leaves the kitchen without so much as a glance in her direction.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” She demands, following him into his bedroom and slamming the door shut behind her. He places his mug on his bedside table and sits down on the edge of his bed, staring at her almost expectantly. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” She yells, buzzing with frustration and feeling the anger rolling off of her. “My dad’s fucking _watch_ , Bellamy. I _know_ you know how much it meant to me, and still, you’re that much of a fucking asshole not to give it back?” He doesn’t respond, just looks at her like he’s ready to receive every blow she has to offer. She wants to scream in frustration. It’s difficult to feel much satisfaction when she’s not even working against him. “And then you left! You didn’t even have the decency to let me be angry at you!” Still nothing. “Bellamy!” She screams, begs almost, as her hands form fists by her sides.

And finally, a sighed “What?”

“Say something!” She exclaims.

“You’ve already made your mind up on me, Clarke.”

“That’s not a fucking answer.”

_“Then what?”_ He bellows, pushing up from his bed and moving into her space. She’s glad he’s finally giving her something. “What do you want me to say, Clarke?” 

“Tell me why you did it,” she orders, holding her ground and fighting back tears because unfortunately she’s an angry crier. “Tell me why you left. Tell me why you couldn’t even give me the satisfaction of fucking _staying_.”

Bellamy scoffs, shoulders tensing. “You didn’t want me there,” he says, voice tight and low. “I didn’t want to be there. So I took a page from your book and left.”

“Fuck you,” she seethes, shaking her head. “That’s not fair. _You_ left so you didn’t have to face me.” She pushes a finger into his chest. “ _You_ left because you didn’t want to be held accountable for the shitty things you’ve done.”

“Yeah, and why the fuck did you leave, Clarke?” He demands.

“I left because-” She yells, then falters. She swallows hard, her eyesdarting away from him as she takes a few steps backwards. Her back hits his bedroom door, and she’s relieved that he doesn’t try to follow. “I already told you why I left,” she says quietly, feeling a wave of nausea through the anger. She was expecting him to fight back eventually, but he didn’t have to humiliate her in the process. 

“No you didn’t,” Bellamy responds. His eyes aren’t as hard when she meets them, instead searching, desperate. “You caught me-” he clears his throat, sounds pained in his next words “-kissing someone else. But you didn’t say anything. A text, Clarke; that’s all I got. You didn’t even _talk_ to me about it.”

“I couldn’t talk to you.”

“ _Why_ , Clarke?” She doesn’t respond, averting her gaze from his eyes, too deep and holding too much weight. “Clarke, just-”

“Because I couldn’t let myself fall any further for someone who didn’t love me back!” She exclaims, finally snapping. Her voice is rough from unshed tears and she can feel them prickling her eyes, desperate to fall. “It happened to my dad with my mum. It happened to me with Finn, and I refused to put myself through that again, Bellamy!”

“I did, though, Clarke!” He yells, stepping forward. His hands move to his hair, grasping in frustration. “I fucking loved you, too.”

“No you didn’t,” she whispers, heart clenching almost painfully in her chest. She feels her tears begin to fall and wipes them from her cheeks with as much dignity as she can muster. It hurts to hear those words, knowing they’re not true and still wishing they were. “Please don’t say that.”

“Clarke-”

“Don’t.”

_“Why?”_

“How can you expect me to believe it, Bellamy?” She responds quietly, the fight in her gone. And she forgets thatsometimes; just how quickly anger can dissipate because you’re too fucking _tired_ to be angry anymore. “If you did love me why would you do it?”

He doesn’t respond, and a minute passes where she lets the bedroom door keep her upright, because _god,_ she doesn’t even have the strength anymore. And she feels so fucking pathetic because she’s upset that a boy she wasn’t even _dating_ hooked up with someone else. A year ago. 

Bellamy sits back down on the edge of his bed, elbows moving to rest on his thighs as he cradles his head in his hands. 

“Because I’m an asshole,” he says, finally. “I don’t have a good excuse; nothing that will make it okay. I was confused about us and you told me you couldn’t come to the party and I know that sounds like fucking high school shit but I was drunk and it felt a lot like rejection.” He looks up, eyes pained. “I didn’t sleep with her, Clarke, and nothing would’ve happened if you were there. I know that’s-” he huffs a breath, frustrated. “That sounds like I’m blaming you, and I’m not; I did it and I shouldn’t have because I was _in love with you_. I texted you the next day because I wanted to tell you - _everything,_ really. But that’s when you ended things.”

Clarke takes a moment; processing everything he’s told her. He’s right; it’s an _awful_ excuse, and it does feel very high school, but being confused? Feeling rejected? She gets it, and she knows how skewed judgement can get with the addition of alcohol. It’s - it doesn’t make it _okay,_ really, because even though she knows he did nothing wrong it still feels like he did something wrong. She loved him and he’s telling her that he loved her too, and finding out this is all because of something fucking _mistake?_ It’s just - deflating. So fucking stupid and juvenile. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” _Why didn’t you text me back? Why didn’t you tell me you loved me? Why didn’t you fight for me?_

“I didn’t think it was my place. I thought we were on the same page with how everything was progressing, but you were right when you said that we never talked about it. We should’ve. Fuck, we should’ve, but it - it felt like we didn’t need to with how we were together.” He sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “After that text I just convinced myself that I was reading into things.”

“That’s what I thought, too. About myself.” 

He smiles a little, wry. “So you’re telling me that we’re both just idiots?”

“Basically,” Clarke sighs, hand moving to cover her face. It doesn’t make her feel any better; honestly it just makes her feel worse, because none of this would’ve happened if it weren’t for some bad timing and a lot of bad communication. If they just _talked,_ if she wasn’t so sure that she was protecting her heart. It was what she needed at the time - seeing the kiss, not hearing back from him, finding out about Raven; it all felt like a confirmation that she was a booty call, maybe a friend, but nothing more. And she committed to that mentality so much that she didn’t let herself think of all the evidence pointing otherwise; because there _was_ more – she didn’t just make that up. There was more and she might even believe him when he says he loved her too.

When she looks back to him his eyes are boring into hers, sad, and she thinks he’s probably having similar thoughts.

“You were right,” he says, soft but sure. She tilts her head, questioning. “Last night you were right. The watch? Even when we were awful it wasn’t - we didn’t hurt each other like that.”

Clarke swallows, hand moving to grasp the object on her other wrist. Bellamy stands and takes a few slow, tentative steps until he reaches her. 

“I wasn’t hiding it from you, Clarke.” She tilts her head up against the door to meet his eyes, and they’re earnest, his words sincere. “I found it when I was packing up the apartment.”

“Oh.” That was only two weeks ago.

“I didn’t know how to give it to you, but when I came down here to get the cake for your party - everything was going so well between us and I just thought it was a good opportunity.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me that?” She whispers, very aware of how close they now are.

“You had just told me why everything fucked up. And that you used to love me. I was in a bit of shock.” 

“Then why’d you leave?”

“Because I thought I fucked up everything again,” he confesses, sounding a bit sheepish. He raises a hand to move a lock of her hair behind her ear, lingering so his thumb caresses her cheek. “Clarke, this week - I - I don’t want it to mean nothing.” Her tongue moves out to wet her lips and his eyes fall to follow the movement for a lingering moment before meeting her eyes again, a question in his gaze. 

“Neither do I,” she whispers, and he releases a relieved breath. 

He leans in, hand moving back into her hair as he catches her top lip with his own. It’s careful, simple; just the press of their mouths together for a long moment before he pulls away slowly. It still gets her heart racing, a mixture of relief and anticipation beginning to course through her body as their breath mingles between them. 

She moves a hand to cup his face, and can feel his smile, knows it’s there despite her closed eyes. He leans in again and this time it’s more; still slow, but more. Lips sliding against each other in small, wet kisses; Bellamy’s hand snaking around her waist to pull her flush against his chest; his inhale when her tongue traces his lips and slides into his mouth. She deepens the kiss, hands moving to his chest and grasping at the material of his top to keep him close.

She knows him well, has done this hundreds of times before, but there’s no denying the warmth that spreads through her chest like this is their first kiss. And in a way it is; it’s their first kiss that’s completely honest; where she knows what he wants, where she can accept her own feelings, embrace it all without worry that he doesn’t feel the same way. 

His hands slide to her shoulders, and he begins pushing her rain jacket off her so it falls on the floor.

She smiles as she breaks the kiss, dodging his attempt to chase her lips.

“That’s awfully presumptuous of you,” she teases softly, her heart swelling at the sight of him, eyes closed and lips swollen. He looks well kissed.

“We don’t have to…” He trails off, dazed, and she laughs lightly into the crook of his neck. 

“Oh we definitely do,” she grins, and he laughs, hearty, his chest rumbling against her own. Her hands move to his waist, holding onto him for stability because she may be twenty four, but this man is still able to make her weak at the knees.

She pulls back to look at him, and his wide smile softens slightly as he runs his hands over her hair. His eyes are dark, pupils blown with desire, but she can also see the gleam of relief there. He just looks so goddamn fond of her it’s making her stomach twist in knots.

“Clarke, this week; it’s been-” he shakes his head, plants a chaste kiss on her lips. “I know it hasn’t all been good, but I’m really glad I decided to come up for Christmas.”

“Yeah, me too,” she says, smiling shyly.

“I - fuck, Clarke, I can’t - I love you, okay? I am so goddamn in love with you I don’t even know what to do with it all. I know it’s only been a week of this, but - I don’t think it ever really went away, and I just need you to know.” He takes a deep breath; smiling at her so sweetly as she stares into his eyes, hope blooming in her chest. “I love you, Clarke. I just - I love you.”

“Bellamy,” she whispers, hands tightening on his waist. Her heart races inside her chest, every part of her buzzing because _these are the words she’s always wanted to hear,_ and he’s saying them to her so sincerely, with so much conviction that she doesn’t doubt it like she did before. And it may be seven thirty in the morning and she may be wearing her pyjamas and docs and she may have just driven two hours to tell him that she hates him but somehow it’s still perfect, because she doesn’t hate him at all, she _loves_ him - she’s so gone for him it scares her, but he loves her back and knowing that, feeling that, _hearing_ that, makes everything a little less scary.

“You don’t have to say it back,” he assures her softly; thumb moving along her cheek. “I just needed to tell you.” And she knows he means it because Bellamy Blake loves so fucking generously when he chooses you, so fucking _selflessly,_ that there’s no doubt in her mind that he’d wait until she was sure she felt it, until she was ready to say it. 

She smiles, pressing her lips against his softly before shifting away to toe off her boots and socks. She steps back into him, hands moving to the hem of his top, and he helps her pull it off. She tugs her own top and sweater off in one go, and his hands move to smooth down her hair before he cradles her face. His smile is wide and bright as he leans down to kiss her again, and it’s messy and a little awkward, mostly teeth because he can’t quite tamp down his grin as she tries to deepen the kiss. She huffs, frustrated, but can’t fight the smile that pulls at her lips.

“Sorry,” he laughs against her mouth lightly.

“You can make it up to me,” she offers suggestively, and he hums against her lips, hands moving down her back to the band of her bra. 

He undoes the clasp and she shrugs it off, unable to hold in her giggle when his eyes predictably drop to her bare chest, because _god,_ he’s always fucking _loved_ her breasts. He offers her a sheepish smile before his hands continue down her back to cup her ass, his lips moving to her neck. She arches into his touch, allowing him more access as his tongue laves, soothing the sting left by his teeth.

He pulls her hips against his, and she can feel how his cock twitches beneath his pyjamas. She bucks up into him, a wetness beginning to pool between her thighs, and his teeth clench into her shoulder momentarily as he groans. Her hands moves down his sides and she tugs his pyjama pants down, lifting her foot to push them down his legs so she doesn’t have to duck away from his lips. 

He trails his mouth back up her neck, quick and light, until it lands on her lips, and she grasps the back of his head to keep him there for a searing kiss. It’s hot and wet, so much desire in the way their lips move against each other hungrily, as their tongues meet in a familiar dance. They stumble back until Bellamy’s legs hit the bed, and she breaks the kiss to push him onto it. 

He shuffles backwards, keeping his gaze locked on her, eyes dark and full of lust as she hooks her thumb in the waist band of her pyjama pants and underwear, sliding them off her hips and down her thighs, leaving her completely naked. She watches how he swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, and smiles to herself because she’s _always_ had this effect on him, and it’s more than a little flattering. She moves onto the bed, shuffling along on her knees until she can straddle his lap and begin rocking her hips. He leans up to capture her lips, hand moving into her hair and grasping it while he licks into her mouth. She continues to grind into his lap, and he twitches against her, cock hardening even more beneath the fabric and making her pussy ache with desire. She can feel the arousal that’s building, the wetness that slides against the skin of his thighs, the fabric of his briefs, as she chases friction, and is saved from any embarrassment when Bellamy groans. 

“Fuck, Clarke,” he swears against her lips, hand sliding from her hair, down her back and to the lips of her pussy. “You’re so wet, baby.” 

Clarke moans as he slides two fingers past her folds, trailing up and down the slickness a few times before he reaches her clit. He begins teasing her; the pressure exerted not enough to get her to the edge but just right to draw it out. She rocks against his hand, and moves an arm around Bellamy’s shoulders, fingers lightly scraping his scalp the way she knows he likes as she pulls him in for a kiss. 

She begins tugging on the waistband of his underwear eagerly, because they can be slow and teasing later but right now she just _needs him_. He picks up on her cue and they both shift so she can rid him his last remaining clothing. His cock springs up against his stomach, and Clarke can’t help but to sit back on his thighs and take in the sight. Her hand darts out to the grasp his length, and she flicks her thumb over the head, gathering his pre-come. She brings it to her mouth, keeping their gaze locked as she sucks it off her thumb. Arousal pools between her thighs at the taste of him, as he mutters a curse and snakes the arm not supporting him around her waist. He pulls her flush against his torso, and the heat of his skin against hers, his heartbeat, fast but strong, and the way his chest rises and falls spreads a warmth through her.

She kisses him again, slower and sweeter because she can, and she can feel the faint smile against her lips. They flip over, Bellamy pressing her back into his bed as he settles above her. His hand moves to her face, tracing the curve of her cheek lightly before reaching her lips. He chuckles when she kisses the pad of his thumb, and then his lips descend to her own, tongue licking her lips and into her mouth as she grasps his hard cock. She strokes him a few times, bringing her knees up around his hips before she guides him to her entrance. 

He locks his hand with hers as he pushes in slowly, stretching her so deliciously, so perfectly. He kisses her when he’s buried within; that kind with slow burning passion that leaves her breathless, and it all feels so fucking perfect when he slides out, hitching her leg around his hip so he can thrust in deep. The hand not linked with his moves to scratch lightly against the skin of his back, and she begins meeting his thrusts, angling her hips to deepen them. 

It’s slow and building, something she hasn’t really let herself want because it feels like _more_ ; hands linked and sweet kisses and breathy moans and looking into each other’s eyes. His are dark but so fucking full, and it’s more than just the pleasure they’re giving to each other; it’s her heart blooming and swelling because this week has been so confusing and so amazing and so heartbreaking, but being with him here and now makes it all worth it.

She wraps her legs around him and begins rolling her hips against him more quickly. They speed up together, finding a new rhythm like they always do, and she moans when his hand moves the cup her breast, thumb flicking over her pebbled nipple.

“I love it when you do that,” she breathes out, neck arching as his tongue trails a wet line up the column.

“I know,” he whispers into her ear, sucking on the pulse point behind it until she whimpers.

The pressure within her core builds and builds, and she holds him closer, chases his lips for a desperate kiss as each thrust pushes her further to the edge. His hips stutter and he loses their rhythm momentarily, his hand quickly sliding down her side until it’s between her thighs. He begins rubbing tight circles into her clit, and she lets out a small whimper with the jolts of electricity that curl her toes. 

“Bell - fuck,” she pants, feeling herself about to break. “I need-”

“Come on, princess,” he urges, voice absolutely wrecked. “I know how close you are, baby. Just let go, Clarke, you feel so damn good around me. I wanna feel you come around me, baby.” 

It’s his voice that gets her, like he knew exactly what she needed to take her over the edge, and Clarke keens and sees stars. Hot release rolls through her and she clenches around Bellamy’s cock, his lips surging down to swallow her moans as he draws it out enough to leave her breathless.

His head drops into the crook of her neck as he takes the next few thrusts to follow her. He groans, breath hot against her skin while he pulses within her, and she holds him close until he comes down from the high. 

They lie like that for a minute, Bellamy careful not to crush her with his weight, until she can feel him soften inside of her. He pulls out, face shifting back so he can look at her, and his smile is blinding; such pure joy and love that her heart swells. He rolls to the side, settling onto the bed beside her with a look of such content. She leans in to press her lips against him quickly before shifting off the bed to go to the bathroom and clean up.

When she returns to his bed he snakes an arm around her, pulling her into his chest immediately. 

“I’m not letting you leave this time,” he whispers against her neck, and her eyes close heavily. She squeezes the arm wrapped around her and shuffles further into him, trying to save him from his nerves and herself from her guilt.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she promises. 

Light from the morning sun creeps through the blinds, and she burrows her head into the pillow, but she’s so spent – both physically and emotionally – that she doesn’t think any amount would keep her from drifting off. Bellamy kisses her shoulder, and she can feel the curve of his lips, and smiles herself, her entire body bursting with nerves and warmth and love. 

“I love you, too,” she whispers a few minutes later.

Bellamy doesn’t say anything, but he holds her closer, his fingers tracing circles into her skin, and she falls asleep with a smile on her face.

***

“Don’t be pissy.”

“I’m not pissy.”

“You are,” Clarke assures with a grin, bringing their linked hands to press a kiss onto his fingers. “It’s okay that you’re not on par with my amazing skills.”

“It was laser tag, Clarke.”

“Only losers use excuses, Bellamy – oh, _wait!_ That’s fitting,” she teases, eyeing the small trophy she made him buy her when she beat him three games to two. 

“Oh yeah?” He says, tugging on her hand so she stumbles into his chest.

“Yep,” she says, popping the ‘p’ as she grins up at him. 

He pushes her back against the door of his car, and catches her lips. She giggles for a moment before her free hand moves to clutch his top, and then she gets lost in the kiss, hungry for his touch and his taste. She breaks away before things get too heated, laughing against his neck.

“We probably shouldn’t make out in a parking lot that is frequented by small children.”

He hums into her hair. “You provoked me.”

“You’re an idiot,” she tells him, rolling her eyes. 

“But you love me,” he says, smug.

She smiles, leaning up to press one last kiss onto his lips. “Yeah, I do.” 

***

“I’m scared your sister will kill us for coming up so late.”

“It’s only four, she’ll be fine. I think you’re overestimating the work it takes to host a party. People literally only want alcohol, and we’ve got some as a peace offering. We’re good.”

“Okay, fine,” she huffs out a breath. "I’m scared your sister will kill me because I didn’t tell her about us for the year we’ve been friends.”

“That’s more likely, yeah.”

“ _Bellamy_.”

He smiles, hand finding hers over the console of the car. “She’ll be fine. You heard what she said at lunch; she’ll just be happy that I found a nice girl.”

“But I haven’t been nice.”

“Clarke-” 

“Bellamy, I’m serious.” She worries her lip and closes her eyes. “I’m – I’m really fucking happy, and I just – I’ve missed you so much – _so much_ – and I want this to work.” She looks to him and catches his eyes, offers him a smile. “But we’ve never been, you know – together, with our friends.”

“And you think we won’t be able to?” 

“I don’t know. Do you?”

“Yes,” he says, sure. “They can deal, Clarke. First of all, they’re probably not as invested in our relationship as you’re thinking – I’m sure they’ll just be happy that we won’t be fighting.” She laughs and he flashes her a grin. “Second of all, they’re our friends; they’re probably going to have a lot of questions, but in the end they’ll just want us to be happy. Same with O.”

She breathes out a deep breath, the knots in her stomach untwisting with his reassurances. She squeezes his hand and he laces their fingers together. 

“We’re gonna do it right this time, Clarke.”

“Yeah, I believe you,” she says, a smile colouring her voice.

They arrive at the cabin at half past four, finding everyone in the living room watching _Monsters, Inc._ which seems like a bad idea because it’s guaranteed to make all of them cry. Even Raven. No, especially Raven. There’s a keg sitting by the dining table, which seems promising, as well as a few bottles of liquor which she’s hoping includes some bourbon, and snacks. She’s glad everything looks planned and bought, because in a town like this she doubts anywhere will be open past five, and with the aforementioned _Monsters, Inc._ she thinks she’d have to go out herself to buy it.

“Well looks who comes crawling back,” Jasper says when he notices them, eyes narrowing in on their linked hands. 

Raven cuffs him over his head and pauses the movie. 

“So,” she prompts, and everyone looks at the pair expectantly. 

Bellamy arches an eyebrow, pressing a deliberate kiss onto her lips and being met with a wolf whistle that’s definitely Raven and a groan that’s definitely Octavia. 

“You guys owe us about one hundred explanations,” Octavia tells them with narrowed eyes. “And alcohol is an acceptable apology for making us deal with you for the past year. But it’ll have to wait because Boo is about to make us cry.”

“Fair enough,” Clarke allows, holding up a bag with the alcohol they brought and walking over to add it to the other pile. 

Raven presses play on the movie and everyone’s attention turns back to it, most likely steeling themselves for the inevitable tears. Clarke squeezes Bellamy’s head and nods upstairs. He follows her with an easy smile, continuing into her bedroom and settling down on her bed.

They had slept until just past twelve, stopping over at her apartment so she wouldn’t have to wear her pyjamas on the drive back. It was a good call, because even though they had agreed to go straight to the cabin to help set up for the New Year’s party, Bellamy had taken an early exit when she mentioned the arcade that had laser tag close by. It was definitely an afternoon well spent – involving lots of kissing and laughing and eating and pretending she was a ninja and beating Bellamy (the victory so much sweeter when he’s as competitive as she is), which are some of her favourite pastimes, honestly – but with only four hours spent actually sleeping she’s quite tired.

So when Bellamy makes grabby hand motions for her to join him on the bed she can’t refuse. They settle onto the bed, Clarke resting her head against his chest while his arm pulls her in close. She can hear his heart beating beneath his chest and she smiles, eyes closing sleepily. 

“You’re like a human pillow,” she comments happily, relishing in his warm laugh. 

“Can I put that on my resume?”

“Yep, I can be your referee,” she teases, squeaking when he pinches her.

When she wakes up next it’s dark outside, and someone is knocking on her bedroom door.

“You guys better not be having a quickie!”

_Octavia,_ she thinks with a smile. She checks her phone and finds that it’s just past seven.

“We’ve been up here for like, two hours, O,” she calls out. “I wouldn’t define that as a quickie.”

Octavia groans, but it was mostly her fault anyway so Clarke doesn’t feel so bad when she laughs. Still, people will be coming around in the next hour or so, so she pulls herself up and nudges Bellamy’s shoulder until he grumbles. 

“What?”

She grins, leaning down to kiss the tip of his nose. “New Year’s, old man! Up!”

He snakes an arm around her waist and pulls her back into him. “I don’t wanna.”

She laughs, pushing away from him and poking her tongue out when he glares. Still, she makes it up to him a moment later when she pulls off her top and glances at him over her shoulder. He’s out of bed in five seconds flat, following her into the bathroom and kissing her under the stream of water just like he had yesterday. 

It doesn’t feel like it was only yesterday; so much changing in such a small amount of time, and she finds her head spinning slightly with everything that has happened. In a good way; a great way, actually, because while she can’t deny the frustration and heartache in knowing that she and Bellamy have wasted a year, she’s just so happy to have him with her now.

She tells him as much, and his grin is so goddamn goofy she can’t help the bursts of laughter that echo in the bathroom.

***

“You knew?” Clarke asks, probably slurs; shocked. She’s swaying precariously on the kitchen table for a reason she can’t quite remember anymore. 

“I was about 99% sure,” Wells confirms, offering a hand to help her down. She accepts it because she may be a _little_ drunker than she anticipated at only ten, and swaying on the floor is probably dangerous enough, let alone on the table. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” She frowns, following him into the kitchen and downing the glass of water he hands her. It’s not surprising that he’s still taking care of people, because drunk or not, that’s just what Wells does.

“I wasn’t completely sure,” he shrugs. “And I trusted you to tell me if that’s what you needed.”

“Huh,” she says. “I’m kind of an idiot, apparently, so probably don’t trust me with that kind of stuff anymore.”

“Duly noted,” he tells her, swinging an arm around her shoulder. 

He guides her back into the lounge room, filled to the brink with a mixture of her best friends, her old friends, people she remembers vaguely, and people she’s sure she’s never once met. Still, everyone’s being very respectful of her place, so she doesn’t mind the extra people. As long as she’s spending the night with the people she loves (and a bourbon and coke in hand) she’s happy.

“Well I knew about you and Raven,” she tells him after a moment, almost defiant.

Wells snorts a laugh, shaking his head. “It’s not a competition, Clarke, and if it was, you definitely wouldn’t win. _Everyone_ knew about me and Raven.”

“Shhhh,” she insists, placing a finger against his lips, and then handing him over to Raven when the girl demands _to be kissed, damn it._

Which is fine, because she finds Octavia and Harper dirty dancing in the middle of the dance floor, and she’s at that perfect level of drunk where that looks fucking _amazing._ The girls welcome her with grabbing hands and giggles, and she joins the throng of people, happily dancing and singing. 

It's only a few minutes later that a pair of strong arms pull her into a broad chest. Clarke smiles, head rolling against Bellamy’s shoulder so she can kiss his jaw.

“I worked things out with Miller,” he tells her, and Clarke follows his gaze to the man who’s just now joining Monty in a drinking game. 

She frowns, turning in Bellamy’s arms to face him. She links her arms around his neck and they sway slightly in a weak attempt of dancing. “What was there to work out?”

“He knew why you left,” Bellamy tells her, and she hides her face against his chest because she still feels oddly embarrassed by it all. “He kept telling me to call you; to stop being such a coward and work it out, but he didn’t tell me that he knew why you left. He wanted to explain everything; I think he felt guilty, actually. He told me you asked him not to say anything.”

Clarke nods into his chest before peaking up to look at him. He’s smiling down at her, fond, and she feels a flush rise on her cheeks. 

“I didn’t want you to know,” she tells him quietly. 

Bellamy sighs, but his expression is understanding and he presses a sweet kiss on her lips.

“I understand.”

The final two hours of the year are spent with her favourite people in the world, laughing and singing and dancing and talking (and not drinking; she needs to sober up a bit). She makes sure to give Miller and Monty a big hug to thank them for putting up with her for so long, and an apology for slightly stealing the thunder of their engagement news.

“We don’t need everyone else’s happiness, Clarke,” Monty had told her, a little shy. “I’m glad you’re all happy for us, but when you love someone as much as we do? You don’t need anyone else dignifying it. You didn’t take anything away from us.”

She grinned, hugged him fiercely, and allowed him a victory in Mario Kart as a small apology (she would’ve won otherwise, and she swears to that).

When the one minute mark hits Octavia turns down the music, screeching to everyone to find someone to kiss, and Bellamy finds her in five seconds. It’s honestly impressive. She giggles, squirming as he nuzzles into her neck, the warmth of alcohol and happiness making her dazed and ticklish. 

“Our first New Year’s together,” Bellamy whispers into her ear, hand sliding up her top to rub her lower back lightly. “First of many.” 

She smiles, and he cradles her face, pulling her in for a sweet kiss.

“Hasty, hasty,” she teases when he breaks away to nose her cheek. 

“What can I say? I love you.”

Her grin is so wide it might hurt if she weren’t tipsy and happy. “Yeah, yeah.”

He snorts a laugh, squeezing her close as she moves her hands from his chest to link around his neck. She plays with the hair at the nape of his neck, and they just stare at each other with stupid grins until Octavia initiates the chanted countdown. 

“Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, _Happy New Year!”_

Clarke leans up to kiss him silly, sliding her tongue into his mouth so it’s hot and wet and messy, no care for who might see. She doesn’t care; she’s too damn happy. 

They break away, and he leans his forehead against hers as they catch their breaths. It was a good kiss; great, actually, but she needs more and the alcohol coursing her body isn’t doing her patience much good. 

“Come on, we can start off the New Year with a bang,” she whispers to him, pulling him as she walks backwards towards the stairs. 

He grins, waggling his eyebrows like the dork he is, and they stumble up the stairs and into her room, only just resisting the urge to stop and make out along the way.

She pins him against the closed door, pressing her body against his so she can feel his cock twitch beneath his jeans. She bites his bottom lip enough that he grunts, and pulls back with a smug smirk. His eyes darken, hungry, and she keeps their gaze locked as she snakes a hand down to palm his cock over the fabric. He groans, muttering a swear, and she unbuttons his jeans, pulling them down as she sinks to her knees before him. 

Wrapping a hand around the base, she begins stroking him, flicking the tip the way she knows he loves until he’s hard in her palm. She’s tipsy and eager, so doesn’t wait to tease before she licks up the underside of his cock, swirling her tongue along the slit once she reaches the head. He groans, head knocking against the door, and curls his fingers in her hair. It’s easier than it should when she’s kind of drunk, but her enthusiasm makes up for her slight lack of coordination. Bellamy’s still happy though, his whines and grunts telling as she moves her hand and lips and tongue against his throbbing cock. 

“Fuck, baby,” he moans when she deep-throats him, his words pooling a wetness between her thighs. “Princess, you feel so good. I’m so fucking close, baby.” 

She moans on his cock, sucking with more vigour to push him over the edge and feel him pulse in her mouth. Bellamy’s hips begin to stutter and his grip on her tightens, and Clarke directs her gaze to him. Their eyes lock, and she finds it so fucking hot, watching him come apart because of her. She squeezes his hip to let him know that he can come in her mouth, and he does, her name spilling from his lips as he spills into hers.

She stands up and Bellamy pulls her in for a feverish kiss once he’s recovered. He moans into her mouth as the taste of him mingles between their tongues, and the sound makes her shiver. They walk until Clarke’s legs hit the bed, and she shuffles onto it, Bellamy following and making sure to continue their kiss. The grin he offers when his lips leave hers is wolfish, and he tugs the hem of her top until she lifts her arms and lets him rid her of the garment. She unhooks her bra quickly, throwing it to the side, and his lips immediately descend to a nipple, tongue flicking over it until it’s hard and pebbled while his hand works the other. 

His hand slides down her stomach to her jeans, fumbling with the button until she swats his hand away and unbuttons them for him. He laughs into her chest, breath hot and strong with alcohol. His lips move down her body slowly, peppering kisses and teasing bites to make her already flushed body spread with more warmth. She can feel arousal build at her pussy; that need for friction that is only increased with the alcohol in her system. She bucks her hips, trying to chase the hand that was pressing against her throbbing cunt, but it moves the waistband of her jeans. He pushes himself off of her before tugging Clarke towards the edge of the bed and pulling her boots and socks off, followed by her jeans and underwear. He throws her legs over his shoulder and she closes her eyes when she feels his mouth moving up her thighs, teeth nibbling and tongue laving and lips sucking. 

“You’re so fucking wet, baby,” he says as he parts her folds with his fingers. “I love that you’re always like this for me, princess.” 

She hums, back arching with the first press of his fingers against her clit, and she pushes her legs against his back to urge him forward. He chuckles, but before she can whine at his insistence to frustrate her, he swipes his tongue up her slit. A hand darts into his curls to ground her, the other moving to cup her breast and tug her nipple as he begins teasing her pussy. It happens quickly, the pleasure building in her core as he moves his mouth to her clit and slides two fingers within her hot and wet cunt. The buzzing of alcohol has already set her on edge, and sparks of electricity flow to the tips of her fingers and toes when he crooks them to hit that sweet spot inside her. She lets out a broken cry as his tongue sweeps back and forth over her sensitive bundle of nerves, her hand tightening in his hair, pulling him to her as she rocks against his mouth. 

“Come on, princess,” he says against her, the vibrations glorious. “I can feel how close you are. Just let go, baby, I wanna taste you as you come for me.” 

His fingers pump more quickly, the pressure his lips exert dancing between the line of pain and pleasure in the most delicious way, and then he grazes his teeth over her clit and she’s gone. She clenches her pussy around his fingers and moans, the intense pleasure continuing to flood her as Bellamy works her through it.

She opens her eyes in a daze to catch him sucking her slick arousal off his fingers. It sends a new burst of heat through her, and he moves back up her body with quick presses of his lips onto her sweat sheened skin. 

“Goddamn it, princess, I will never get sick of that.”  


“I truly hope not,” she breathes out, smiling stupidly.

He laughs, capturing her mouth with his own before they shuffle further onto the bed. She tastes herself on his tongue, licks it out of his mouth as he legs wrap around him. She rolls to try to reverse their position, giggling wildly when they both flop onto their sides on the bed. Tipsy sex is a lot of fun. 

“Whoops,” she grins, pushing onto his chest to press his back into the bed. 

She straddles his lap and he laughs, pushing up while she leans down so they can meet for a kiss. It’s messy, mostly spit and teeth as they both show little care in technique, but neither of them caring in the least. She grinds down onto his lap, rocking her hips until she can feel him hard against her. She pushes him back, breaking their kiss as she perches herself above him, steadying herself with a hand on his chest. She takes his cock in hand hand, lining them up before she sinks onto him. He fills her up deliciously, like he always does, and they both moan when he’s buried deep in her. 

Clarke rolls her hips slowly, getting the feel of him, before she raises her hips and slides onto him once more. She likes being on top; being able to control the pace and watch Bellamy fall apart beneath her. One of his hands move up her side to cup her breast, thumb flicking over her nipple in time with each thrust. She doesn’t have the patience to go slow, and begins moving her hips quickly, chasing the pleasure that builds inside of her. She snakes a hand between them, pressing two fingers to her clit and rubbing with purpose, keening every time a stroke sends an incredible jolt up her spine.

His hand moves from her breast to the back of her neck, pulling her down for a desperate kiss. And it’s that; having him close and feeling the warmth of his chest against her own, hearing his shallow breaths even as he continues to kiss her, the bite of his teeth against her bottom lip, that pushes her over. It’s less intense this time, but better; she prefers having him right next to her, being able to kiss him through the waves of pleasure that roll through her.

He turns them over while she’s still weak and sated, and she wraps her legs around him as he fucks into her, finding his own release after only a minute. He kisses her desperately, like he never wants to stop, and she swallows his throaty groans as he empties himself inside of her.

“Fuck, I love you,” he say against her lips, taking a deep breath when he moves to rest his head against her shoulder.

“Yeah,” she smiles, hands moving around his shoulder to hold him to her. “I love you, too.” 

***

Bellamy’s still asleep when she wakes up, and there’s no fighting the smile that pulls on her lips at the sight of him: messy curls, parted mouth, relaxed as he curls around her. She cards a hand through his hair and he leans into her touch slightly, making a happy humming sound. She rolls over, holding back a laugh, and reaches for her phone on the bedside table, finding that it’s just past eleven. Her eyes flick to the unopened envelope that’s still sitting there from the previous nights, and she worries her lip for a moment before picking it up. She shuffles up to rest against the headboard and makes sure that Bellamy’s still sleeping beside her. 

Taking a deep breath, she does what she hasn’t been able to since her mother first gave her the letter, and carefully opens it. It’s his handwriting, that same small scrawl she remembers from every birthday card she’s received from him or whenever he’d write her a note for missing class. 

It’s dated the twentieth of September, just eight days before he died. She takes a deep breath and begins reading.

_To my dearest Clarke on her twenty fourth birthday,_

_There isn’t anything I wouldn’t give to be able to spend this day with you, but in my heart I know that you’ll probably be spending it drunk off your ass anyway._

She snorts out a laugh, already feeling a sense of relief because of course he’d still be able to make her laugh. 

_You’ve just left the hospital, telling me all about the creepy professor Dante Wallace you’ll be having again next semester, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard the term “wrinkled peanut beach ball” to describe a human being but it’s one that I’ll cherish until the end of my days (which are admittedly numbered. (Is it okay to joke yet?)). Despite the professor, my heart still warms knowing that you’ll be continuing your art long after I’m gone. It’s one of the many reasons I’m so incredibly proud of you, and I hope you never let others decide what it is you should do._

_You’re one of the most stubborn people I know – which was difficult to work with when you started a petition against “the unjust standardised testing system” when you were ten (and while yes, I agreed with you, it definitely wasn’t Ms. Keys’ fault) – but your determination has certainly become one of your greatest assets. Never lose it, and I know you’ll go far in whatever field you choose to work in. I wish I was able to watch you continue to succeed; to help you through the difficult times and celebrate with you during the happy ones, but I know you’ll have other people there with you._

_I’m sure you still have Wells in your life, but for my own selfish reasons I hope that you aren’t in love with him. Your mother and Thelonious were always convinced you’d end up getting married, and I’d always bet against you two getting together. Still, I’ll forgive you if you are – but let him know that even though I’m not there to give him the obligatory “if you hurt her” speech just to make you angry, I’ll definitely make the trip from wherever I am to give him hell if he does. And if not, the same still goes for whichever boy or girl you’ve chosen._

_You may be wondering why I asked your mother to give you a letter for this particular birthday, and it’s simple. When I was twenty four I first bumped into an Abigail Griffin and fell madly in love. You obviously know how it ended, and I won’t try to tell you that you’re wrong in thinking that it was hard and messy. I know that there’s part of you that’s resented your mother for what’s happened, which I never wanted, Clarke. There hasn't been a single moment of my life that I’ve regretted meeting Abby, and it’s for the simple reason that without her, I never would’ve had you. Out of everything that I’ve accomplished in my life, raising you is by far the best and most rewarding. I still remember when you were born – you were a tiny, pink, wriggling thing, and I don’t think I’d ever seen something so perfect until that moment. I fell in love with you instantly, as did your mother, and that only grew as you became the incredible young woman I know today._

_My point is that I know you have a reluctance to love after everything that’s happened, and being part of the cause of that is something I deeply regret. You love so generously and so wholly, and I don’t think you even realise how rare and incredible that is. I know that if I told you this in person, you’d tell me it wasn’t incredible; that instead it was foolish and reckless, which I understand. Loving as much as you do sets you up to get hurt, and it’s something I’ve experienced and would never want you to. But, my darling Clarke, I hope that you don’t protect your heart so much that you won’t let people in. You were born from love and love is in your heart. I’ve known it since you brought home a stray kitten when you were seven and insisted in keeping it safe until we found its family._

_So let yourself love, because that is undoubtedly where your strength lies; and know that you’ll be able to survive everything that it puts you through. I have, and I got an incredible daughter who’s just spent the past two hours cheering me up in the days we both know will be my last out of it._

_There’s no predicting the future, my dear girl, and it would be an awfully boring life if we could._

_I wish I could see you today, and on every day that I’ve missed and every day I will miss, but I know that you’ll be okay without me._

_Happy Birthday, my lovely daughter, and I hope twenty four brings you everything that it did for me._

_I will always love you and I will always be there for you._

_Love always, Dad._

Clarke takes out a shaky breath, tears rolling down her cheeks even as she smiles. 

“Hey,” Bellamy mumbles sleepily, looking up to her in concern. He raises his hand to her face, thumb wiping away her tears. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she says softly, glancing at the letter one more time before she returns it to her bedside table. She shuffles back down to rest her head against Bellamy’s chest, thinking about her father’s words: _You were born from love and love is in your heart. So let yourself love._ He presses a kiss into her hair, wrapping his arms aroud her, and she smiles. “I’m good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was hard to write tbh. I think I'm better at build up to a fight than an actual fight, but I tried to make this as realistic as possible i.e. getting to the real issue and having them be upset instead of angry.  
> I hope you enjoyed the angst and smut and fluff!!!!!!!!!!!! And the semi conclusion to the story!!  
> Next chapter will be an epilogue and 100% fluff (okay maybe some smut I'm only human).  
> Let me know what you guys thought :) Comments/ kudos are always appreciated!!


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrapped this story up with the last chapter, but always wanted to include a short epilogue with some fluff (and no smut this time, soz).  
> I decided to do Bellamy pov for this, so I hope you don't mind!! It's literally tooth-rotting fluff.  
> SO! While All Is Love will always be my main baby (I will finish it at all costs so if you're following DW it will never be abandoned), this fic has definitely been my second baby, and it's the first multi-chapter fic I've finished so yay me! I never thought it'd be as long as it turned out to be, or have as much support as you guys have given it. So _thank you_ to everyone who left kudos/comments, because this story probably wouldn't have happened the way it did without you.  
>  Enjoy all the fluff, and have faith in canon bellarke (we're all crying together, so it's cool). Our time will come.  
> Much love <3

**** December 20, 2017.

“You ready, man?” Miller asks, grasping Bellamy’s shoulders from behind as he comes into view in the full length mirror. 

Bellamy pulls the lapels of his suit jacket across his chest and secures the button. “I’ve been ready for this for a long time,” he says, a smile tugging at his lips. 

“Didn’t realise you were such a sap, Blake,” Miller replies with a mirthful smile. 

He doesn’t even try to act offended, the grin splitting his face unable to be tamped down. “Screw you, too.” 

Miller chuckles, patting Bellamy on the back before he continues to get himself ready. Bellamy walks over to the dresser, picking up the small velvet box to look at the ring he’ll soon be sliding onto Clarke’s finger for what’s probably the seventh time today. They chose it together - much as they did everything else for the wedding - and whenever Bellamy sees it he feels a warmth spread through his chest; knowing what’s to come.

There’s a knock on the door, and upon Bellamy’s nod Miller walks over to open it. It’s Octavia, and she’s got a smile on her face that rivals his. 

“Hey big brother,” she says, walking up to him and taking his hand. “Ready to get married?”

He takes a deep breath and nods. “Just about.” He steps back to look at Octavia, and she rolls her eyes in that indulgent way he remembers from years of taking her photo before high school dances. Her dress is a lovely deep red with a sweetheart neckline, and flows down to the floor. “You look gorgeous, O.”

“Yeah, I know I’m hot. Lincoln’s gonna die when he sees me,” she replies cheekily, prompting Bellamy to roll his eyes. “Wait until you see Clarke though, Bell. You’re going to look like such an idiot when she walks down the aisle. Someone better get a photo of your face.”

“Shut up,” he huffs, running a hand through his hair.“She looks good, though? Ready?”

Octavia’s smile softens. “Yeah. She’s nervous like you, but she’s ready.”

“Okay,” he nods. “Okay. That’s good.”

“Don’t have a breakdown before we get you out there,” Miller says with a smirk. “That’s meant to happen after the wedding, you know. Ball in chain getting you down? Isn’t that what straight people say?”

Bellamy barks out a laugh. “Apparently. If I ever say that about Clarke you have my permission to hit me over the back of my head.”

“I’m sure Clarke would get there before me.”

“That’s true,” Bellamy grants with a smile. Fuck he can’t wait to be married to her. “How long do we have?”

“Five minutes,” Octavia replies. “I came in here with strict instructions from Clarke to tell you that everything’s running smoothly and that there haven’t been any last minute crises. I think she’s actually disappointed. She has nothing to focus on now.”

“I understand the feeling,” he sighs, sitting down on the bed. 

He’s been ready for half an hour now, and while he’s not nervous, the anticipation of seeing her and everything else that today promises is making him jittery. He’s just - he’s really fucking ready to marry her. The love of his life. And all he wants do be doing is standing next to Clarke at the altar and kissing her senseless for the first time as her husband. 

It’s been a long road to where he’s standing (well, sitting) now, and it hasn’t all been easy. It was better after admitting their feelings, but he’d be kidding himself if he said that it solved everything between them. He’s glad it didn’t, because what they have now is so solid; based on trust and love and respect, and there’s no doubt in his mind that they’ve built something strong and lasting. Just as he told her almost two years ago, they did it right this time. 

Another knock on the door breaks Bellamy from his thoughts, and Monty steps into the room. His eyes linger on his husband for a moment, a small smile tugging on his lips before he turns to Bellamy.

“It’s time.”

“Thank fuck,” Bellamy breathes out, and is met by the chuckles of his three friends. 

With a final glance in the mirror, ruffling his hair to get it artfully disheveled in the way he knows Clarke loves, he steps out of the room and heads downstairs. 

To get married. 

Fuck. 

(He’s really trying to stop grinning like an idiot. 

Seriously, he is.)

He makes his way to the altar after a few final words with his sister, and smiles in greeting to the few eyes he catches along the way. It’s less than a minute later that the chatter in the room quiets down, and soon Jasper and Raven are stepping into the room and walking down the aisle. Raven’s in a similar dress to Octavia, and smirks as soon as they lock eyes, which he knows is her saying something like _just wait_ , which seems a little cruel. He’s been waiting for a really long fucking time. 

Next are Monty and Miller, their hands laced together as they make their way to the end of the aisle. They’re in the process of adopting, and he knows it’s taken a toll on them; the added stress and worry, so watching Miller quickly press his lips to Monty’s cheek before he comes to stand next to Bellamy is nice. They both look happy and carefree today, and he knows they’ll soon be even happier when everything pans out. There’s no doubt in his mind that they’ll make fantastic fathers. Octavia and Lincoln follow, with Bellamy rolling his eyes as his sister pokes her tongue out at him. Lincoln watches her with a fond smile, and it reminds Bellamy of how far he’s come in his relationship with both Lincoln and his sister. He knows that Clarke was a big part in that; even before they were together. 

Octavia comes to stand by his side, giving his hand a quick squeeze and offering a kind smile. And he knows what’s coming next: his soon-to-be-wife walking down the aisle with Wells. So he’s prepared, in the sense that he knows what to expect.

But then, with the swell of music and the standing of guests, she steps into view, and he’s not prepared, will never be prepared. His racing heart slows, his hands, holding onto each other tightly in anticipation, slacken, and he feels his entire being relax. Octavia was probably right in saying he’d look like an idiot. He’s not sure he can control any of his face muscles right now. 

And then she looks up, finds his eyes and smiles, and it’s like he can breathe again. He grins, his eyes only on her as she makes her way towards the altar; towards him and their future. 

The only word that really comes to mind in describing her is ethereal. Her dress is gorgeous; off the shoulder, a fitted bodice flowing into a lovely skirt, with a delicate lace pattern over the top. Her hair is up in fancy twists and braids, and he can’t wait to take them out when they’re alone; run his fingers through her curls as he kisses her. Her hands are wrapped around a bouquet that they picked together - petals light purples and pinks and whites - and while they hadn’t cared a huge amount for all these small details, looking at her now makes him care even less. He’d marry her in any setting as long as he got to marry her.

Still, he’s not complaining that he gets to marry her like this. She’s beautiful, and she’s always beautiful to him, but right now she’s just - really, really fucking beautiful. 

She presses her lips on Wells’ cheek when they reach the end of the aisle, and she grins at Bellamy when he holds out a hand for her to step up onto the small platform. Wells takes his place beside her, alongside Raven, Monty and Jasper, while Octavia, Miller and Lincoln are standing next to him. It doesn’t really matter; they’re all friends anyway, but they agreed not to have the girls on one side and the boys on the other. (A small up yours to the wedding industry as they were giving a lot of money to the wedding industry).

“Hey,” Clarke says softly, a little shy, as she stands in front of him.

“Hey,” Bellamy replies, smiling as he brings her hands to his face, pressing his lips along her fingers. He hasn’t seen her at all today, and it’s absolutely insane to say that he’s missed her, but he has. “You look beautiful, Clarke.” Incredibly beautiful. Devastatingly gorgeous. The best thing he’s ever seen is his goddamn life. 

“I’m glad you think so,” she grins, squeezing his hands. “You’re looking pretty handsome yourself. Ready to get married?”

He laughs, light and so fucking delighted. “Yeah. I really am.”

“Me too,” she says, her smile so soft, and the ceremony begins. 

Neither of them are religious, and both agreed to keep this part of the wedding short (because listening to someone talk on and on isn’t really anything they were interested in). They both cry during the vows, and while he doesn’t take his eyes off Clarke he can hear the sniffles of their friends and family around. Octavia hands Bellamy one of the rings and Wells does the same for Clarke, and he slides it onto her left hand to join the one he proposed with. His hands don’t shake, and neither do hers, which is honestly surprising because they’re both radiating excited energy. 

They channel it into the next part, apparently, because as soon as the celebrant tells them they can kiss, they both lean in like they’ve been waiting their whole lives for it. (Part of Bellamy thinks it’s true.) And as soon as he feels her lips pressed against his, everything else fades; the guests cheering, the music playing, their friends on either side of them laughing. All he can focus on is how perfect this moment is. 

He’s careful not to ruin Clarke’s hair, placing one hand at the back of her neck and the other on the small of her back while hers wrap around his shoulders. Their lips slide together, slow and sweet, and he gets lost in her taste and smell and feel. It’s about as unchaste as they can get without it being completely inappropriate for a wedding, and because he’s not quite ready to stop kissing her, he dips his new wife as a service to the guests. She smiles against his lips, a small laugh falling from her mouth, and when he leans back she looks so goddamn happy.

“I love you, Bellamy Blake,” she says softly, once he’s pulled them back upright. “So damn much.”

He leans in again, just quickly, and the surroundings come back. People are still cheering, and he swears he can hear Raven mutter a “get a room”, but he doesn’t care. He’s happier than he can ever really remember, because he’s just married Clarke. He’s _married_ her. It’s a qualifier for the best day of his life.

“I love you, Clarke Griffin.” 

“Husband,” she whispers, a little coy, but he can hear the hint of disbelief in it, too.

“Wife,” he responds, and when her eyes light up with the word he pulls her back in for another kiss.

(Octavia has to tug them apart so they can “sign the damn documents before you leave your own wedding to have a quickie”. 

It’s a fair request.)

***

They spend their honeymoon travelling Europe, Bellamy for the history and Clarke for the art (and both for each other), and make a point of playing the alphabet game with the places they have sex in. 

Christmas and New Years isn't spent at Clarke's cabin that year, instead at a small one in Switzerland (Bellamy can't find it within himself to complain), and when they have a snow fight high up in the mountains it reminds him of a time Clarke wasn't all his. 

"I love you," he tells her when she's taking pictures of the two snowmen they've made, one with a  _C_ imprinted on it with twigs and the other  _B._  So they're both lame? They can be lame together, and that's the point.

Clarke smiles at him, all love and fondness. "I love you, too."

The next Christmas is spent back at their own cabin, which they're fixing up together to rent out. (She still loves it, but after getting engaged they decided that it was too big for them to move into permanently. When Clarke mentioned that a lot of her childhood was spent in a large house with nobody to keep her company, they decided on something smaller and cosier.)

It's there that he has another contender for the happiest day of his life, when Clarke walks up to him with tears in her eyes and three positive pregnancy tests in her hands. Lily Aurora Griffin-Blake is born screaming her lungs out and as pink as they come, mid August, and Bellamy never thought he'd love anyone more than he loves his incredible wife, but holding his daughter in his arms for the first time makes him question it. 

"You're amazing," he tells Clarke when she's nursing their baby. Their _baby._  He kisses her slowly, pouring everything he's feeling into it until his heart slows and he can feel Clarke's tears against his cheeks. "I love you so goddamn much, princess." Because he wasted so much time not saying it and now he'll say it as many times as he can, in as many ways as he can. 

Clarke goes into labour three years later, on the eve of Christmas Eve, and the twins are born just shy of the day itself. Noah Alexander and Charlotte Grace spend their first Christmas day only five hours old, and Bellamy sneaks a small Christmas tree into the hospital room so they can celebrate as the small (getting larger) family they've become.

"Warrior woman," he tells Clarke breathlessly, his amazement for his wife clear in his voice. "I promise to carry the next one if it becomes medically possible."

She laughs despite her exhaustion, Lily tucked into her side on the hospital bed as Noah sleeps in his mum's arms. Bellamy's holding Charlotte himself, and can't stop tracing all her tiny features with his fingers.

"The next one?" Clarke asks, grinning at him. He can see how tired she is, but there's no hiding the happiness shining through either. Fuck he loves her. 

"Yeah," he smiles, glancing back at his new daughter in his arms. "Can't stop at three, princess. Gotta get the fourth so we can become a band."

"Six people for a band?" Clarke asks, amused. 

"Of course. Someone needs to play the tambourine."

Amelia Sophia is born three years later on boxing day, and Bellamy's not even surprised.  Christmas always was their time.

***

(With a family of six they decide that the cabin doesn't seem so big anymore, and they spend their coming Christmases living there with a mix of traditions: snow fights in the morning with hot chocolate and marshmallows for breakfast, chicken adobo for lunch with a long history lesson for the kids taught by Bellamy, and a crappy Hallmark movie in the evening to end the night with his wife.

It's not a future he ever would've imagined for himself, but he's endlessly happy that it's the one that panned out.

"I love you," he reminds Clarke every night before they go to bed, and his heart never fails to swell when he hears the words repeated back to him.

"I love you, too.")

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAY I'M DONE!! Hope you guys enjoyed all the fluff ever.  
> Side note: There were two things I really wanted to include in this chapter but couldn't make flow, so I thought I'd just add here. The first is Bellamy's speech at the wedding, which I assure you would've started off like this "The first time I met Clarke was on her twenty-second birthday, and she was sitting at a bar and hitting on my gay best friend." The second is that during Clarke's first pregnancy Bellamy made a comment about the amount of sex she'd been initiating being due to pregnancy hormones and she scoffed and said “I resent that, I’ve always been a horn dog" because that would totally be Clarke. 
> 
> ANYWAY THANKS SO MUCH FOR JOINING ME ON THIS ROLLERCOASTER OF A FIC! I HOPE YOU'VE ALL ENJOYED IT AND I WANNA THANK LITERALLY EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU CAUSE YOU'RE ALL GREAT AND MADE THIS SO MUCH EASIER TO WORK ON AND JUST - THANK YOU SERIOUSLY!!!!!!

**Author's Note:**

> Btw I made a pic edit for this fic if you guys wanna check it out **[here](http://bisexualbellamyblake.tumblr.com/post/150216783725/after-all-64k-words-7-chapters-explicit-shes)**


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